Mudspell
by Greyella
Summary: The finale battle is over, but dystopia reigns. Hermione and Bellatrix are well aware that there are still personal wars to be fought. AU Dark!fluff. Smut. Bellamione. Minerva, Narcissa, Draco, and a slew of other characters make appearances. Told from various POVs.
1. Politics

**Disclaimer:** This dark-fluff-smut piece is extremely heavy in spots. Consider yourself informed that this is mature adult content and is rated M for a reason.

**Author's Note I:** A special thank you to _beforeyouspeak_ and _undomybackzip_ for their unwavering support as I tackled this story. This is a gifty fic for the lovely imperfectionisunderrated / bellatrixshorcrux. She requested a fluffy Bellamione oneshot, involving Xmas, and ice skating. Er...and I wrote her a dark!fluff fic, barely meeting the parameters, and exceeding 20K words. So. Here ya go.

* * *

They coped, some more poorly than others.

Draco, absurdly enough, took to tinkering with the house. Apparently, he'd discovered the satisfaction of using sledgehammers. Extensions to the house, he informed them, were in order. Narcissa remained their impregnable structure, but she took up cooking. In another era Bellatrix would have disparaged, and deemed it plebeian. But that age was long dead in winter ground. As such, she took glee in decapitating carrots and other unfortunate vegetables. And Hermione found an abundance of soup came her way.

Wordlessly.

There was a quiet acceptance of things that weren't accepted amongst them. Ron would have shit himself to know she stargazed silently with the boy. Always many feet apart, always after dark. She found his constellation. Moments without words, only starlight. Sometimes she brought beer. Once, Draco finagled agreement and got her to try a cigar. (Something about aunt-nephew bonding. She'd slugged him for that absurd reference.) It would have been beyond Ronald's capacity to understand that they searched for something unknown. Teaspoon, that one. They hadn't parted well. But she missed him. She missed them both. Her boys.

And then there was her dark one.

Bella seemed prone to felling trees under moon. Many nights Hermione awoke cold, at the cracks of cackles and a bed far too empty. She let her arms chill during window vigil, and watched the wand light. It illuminated the despondency her lover refused in the day. The flashes. And too many of her handprints now covered the glass, smudging sorrow and love. Eventually, the stairs would creak…the doorknob would bang wall in the night. And then handprints would desperately fuck her into sound, promising life. And in the morning, they'd have unnecessary wood, for the fireplace they didn't need to heat. But did anyway. And Hermione couldn't help but find tragic beauty in such dysfunction. The house didn't speak to Bellatrix's mourning. She'd defected _His_ cause in heart long ago, and sides soon after. But Bella had had a Master. So the mourning still dawned. Hermione took to watching sunrise with the witch, kissing lips that wielded sin on the porch, and then rocked Hermione's hips into oblivion. And the sky would turn rose gold.

Some paved forward.

Minerva, she knew, had spearheaded the Hogwarts repair project. Luna said the woman was like a "dozebulder." At this, Hermione found hope in the things that remained the same. And she grasped at the beginnings of sanity when Bellatrix warmed their bed and bones, and promised her a soul. They didn't process their journey to this place. They didn't define. They just were. Wild hands drove Hermione to such heights, where all bad was forgotten and horror was killed, as she came and came. Clinging to Bella, like books to shelves, she prayed Pandora covers would stay shut.

Some things remained absurd.

The need for secrecy was minimal, as the Order no longer ran their discombobulated operation. The need for secrecy was paramount, for safety. On official record, only three were privy. (Four, if you counted Minerva; the blasted witch knew everything. Five, if you counted Dumbledore, deceased and portrait hung in castle.) Of course, Hermione was well aware that the Ministry was not a beacon of confidentiality. Nor was Kingsley. And Bellatrix was…Bellatrix. Therefore, the happenings after war-dust had settled were a complete secret. _So, naturally the whole wizarding world knew_. Sans the crucial details, of course. Of course. The Daily Prophet made their lives hell. Bellatrix was skewered, but it was Hermione's tears they produced. An awful ink. Still. She couldn't deny the slaps on wrist, the legal luck that the Dark Lord's last, best lieutenant managed to cluck. Freedom was never said to be paradise. But it was theirs.

War was over, but it wasn't.

The new Headmistress told story enough to the world, with biweekly visits to Malfoy Manor…her side clearly drawn. Minerva was matter-a-fact in her silence to the press and gossipmongers; she had no urge to further any blather, be it correct or not. (The witch also seemed to enjoy denying Albus conversation, punishment for his idiotic death.) Molly, however, was hotheaded in this aspect. So much so, that even Percy asked the matriarch to can her trap (shouted actually), albeit to no avail. And while Minerva held to silent truth, Molly held to loud mouth suppositions. Albus merely held. Hermione had hammered in the wall nail herself. She couldn't look at him. And no one knew what to say to Severus, his robes no less portentous in frame. The Gryffindor was glad death took him, and not her accidental lover. Hermione guilted over this, shamed-faced, until Bellatrix had kicked the shins of her brooding. It had been a lively lowbrow mix of truth, insult, and nuance; a quintessential cocktail.

_"Life is for the living, my dear, and Severus died long ago. This was merely his chosen…congruence. Now stop mopping, Mudpup. You can cheer up the oiled git on Tuesday when you assist McGrumpy with the damned castle walls." _

_Bella, bored, had flicked her wand and produced playing cards — tits and ass prevalent on their backs. She'd chuckled at her lover's pinched face. _

_"I'm sure you'll have fun charming them into portrait limbo. And I'm sure he'll just have fun. Do ask him for me, if masturbation's lost its fun." _

Disgusted and amused, Hermione had done just that. He'd "confiscated" the cards, of course. But she assumed Severus enjoyed ordering her to detention. At least she could give him perceived joy, short-lived or not. But alas, McGonagall informed the late professor that his deceased state precluded disciplinary power. And that detention was impossible when there was no Hogwarts in session to house it. Then she'd sent a nasty howler to Bella. Something about corrupting her favorite student, and issues with anatomical artistry.

_"Have much experience with pussy then, do you?" Had been Bella's off-color and punny response. Hermione quite imagined Minerva might have fumed or chortled at that. _

Though in a roundabout way, this solidified that the best witches of the last _three _ages were once again on friendlier terms…apparently. Or so the Slytherin assumed. It reminded Bellatrix of her own school daze, surreal as it was. Others, however, were not on such treacle terms.

Time had done nothing good for the Golden Trio. Splintered metals.

Winter came, in more ways than one. Revelations of double-crossers, spies…and Hermione's loyalties were apparently too much for the boys. She could not call them men. Men wouldn't act as if the world were ending, when it so clearly again had begun. But even without them, she healed. The pain of death never quite went away, but Hermione found that the smell dissipated. And though days sometimes gloomed, they did so less often. She found winter to be a blessed cold, birthing clarity of mind and steadfast declarations in snow. New skin burgeoned, at the forest of curls in her trembling and slick hands. Library hours found her peace. And Bellatrix Black was hers, white as the woodland snow, black as the nights they shared.

They moved forward. They clung more often. They clung less. And more.

And one day, Hermione could barely smell war anymore. She'd walked into the drawing room, and for the first time only saw sunlight filters. There was song to be found again, in the kitchen. The hallways. Bella still felled trees, but under the daystar. In it she seemed to find a productivity close to mirth (a relative comparison, mind you). Still, stranger things happened by the woodpile. Hermione went to hysterics, after catching the witch mouthing words to Heigh-Ho. Clearly, the woman had raided her film collection. And really, there was no good way to explain to the ex-villain, how quaint and queer a picture that was, even sans dwarfs. However, the Gryffindor couldn't help but crack a smile every time the fire popped. The white ash smelled like home in her nostrils, no longer like bodies. In more playful times, she'd hum the tune, just to jape her lover…pulling for that scowl she so did adore. The first time it happened, at breakfast, Narcissa had spat out her tea, spritzing it across the table onto Draco's lap. But the woman's face had lit (Draco's had sworn). The Malfoys, Cissy in particular, exerted a strange sunshine. (At this Hermione wondered, at a small blonde girl, blithe, that once was…or so Bella told her.) And Draco was keen, and sold the excess wood at market, to a home goods vendor.

Long December.

And there was reason to believe that maybe this year would be better than the last. So it was, Hermione found herself alone in Diagon Alley, in the Christmas crowds. Well, Solstice crowds to be more accurate. The wizarding world was unsurprisingly Pagan. Only muggle-borns seemed to hold fast to their holiday. And Hermione was that. Her parents hadn't been very religious. But they'd had a tree. And their specific traditions. And with them in Aus— gone, she'd rather annoyed herself with a full-fledged Christmas spirit. It certainly annoyed Bella.

_This vexed morning, curls had flung the Gryffindor out the manor, with ember words._

_"On your Dumbly's grave, I swear I'll fuck you with the fire poker if you don't take your cheer out of this house! Out, out Muddy!" She had shooed the girl to doorframe, before a final fondness of "Out, dear," whispered against lips. _

_Bellatrix had a way with words. And lips. Offensive sweet things, kept all wrapped up and snug in careless packaging, but well-meaning inside. But Hermione had gone, her ears catching the blonde snickers drifting from sitting room. And Bella's hypocritical,_

_"Shut it, Cissy. That's my wife you're sassing. And Dray-dray, don't make me explain to Blaise what pokers are good for."_

_Amused and fearing, Hermione had gone._

Flourish and Blotts was unchanged, dusty and wonder-filled as always. The tomes welcomed Hermione with a silence she hadn't known she sought. Arm-laden with new worlds to absorb, she purchased her escapes and made out the door.

In retrospect, she should have flooed.

The day was crisp, and lured. And even in her absence, she had Bella's company. The cloak on her body, the ring kissing air. The snowflakes lodged in her hair. They whispered confidence. In the street, the people stared. Children cried. Eight months, apparently, was not enough time for the world. Not if she expected to be treated like the schoolgirl she once was. But then again, she wasn't. Still. Though the animosity was expected, she would rather the poets dream. Perhaps it was the chill, but she didn't take heed. She did well with mint days; they offered a _je ne sais quoi_. Her step bounced, and cobbles chuckled. In retrospect, she should have never gone to the shoppe. But the mint was refreshing.

The Weasley joke shoppe.

Hermione stood outside, as if proximity to the building's laughter was enough. Her longing was interrupted, by an exit and a door slam. Linked arm in arm, and too reminiscent of innocence, were the Patil twins. Padma had unlinked arms, letting her sister scurry pass. Parvati. They had never been close. But they hadn't been far.

"Granger." Rushed passing.

But from the weak smile Parvati gave her, they now had a galaxy span between them. Hermione only rated last name, from the girl who'd grown up not even two beds away. And it wasn't even the _correct_ surname. Even with Bella's cold all around her, fitting her mouth like magic toothpaste, Hermione flushed and looked down. She hadn't expected the warmth on her chin, raising it, nor the affectionate regard the woman gave her. Padma.

"Up." The Ravenclaw whispered. "Stay up…Black." A crescent smile fleeted.

Gently, the mittened hand grasped her forearm in farewell, leaving with sharp eyes and an encouraging nod.

Hermione Black watched her go.

And recalled why she'd always preferred Ravenclaw to Gryffindor. Once again, she was painfully reminded, of another reason to take after Minerva. In kind, she too avoided Dumbledore. He'd meddled. And denied her true house. That piece of information had broken her. For her house wasn't hers, neither of them. Disclosure had come by vindictive way of Neville Longbottom, who apparently had a none-too-mum grandmum. The Order apparently had…put things into action, long ago. Trading her path, in lieu of giving Harry a minder.

_The night the story broke, Bella had found only one option. _

_It had been an interesting exchange: dark witch supporting hysterical girl, and knocking on McGonagall's door. It had flung open, and old master and apprentice had intimate regard for the first time in decades. It wasn't the first time they had seen each other, since the new alliance. Quite the contrary. But Bella hadn't acknowledged their actual relationship…until now. She wore a particular look. One Minerva hadn't seen since the woman's school years. It had taken simple words from Bellatrix, and the world both rewound and tipped._

_"The Sorting Hat. Your bloody meddlesome fools…Tea. We need some fucking tea."_

_Roughly, a once eater kissed the professor's cheek, and then thrust her hysterical chit into academic arms. And Bellatrix Black crossed the professor's threshold in a way McGonagall thought lost to them. But now found, Minerva let not rug but time sweep them clean, acknowledging them both once again as her apprentices. Apparently defection, howlers, and shrewd marriage swayed even the most lion of hearts. _

The Patils.

Hermione watched their forms. Watched long after the flurry had swallowed them into snowscape. But the laughter still rang. And for the first time in a long while, she sought to join it. And pushed the door open. _Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes_ hadn't changed. Sure the product lines were new, mixed in with old staples. The main floor display had been rearranged. But the essence was the same. Red hair flashed inbetween shelves and the hustle of customers. Cheer about her, she forgot what life had wrought. And like adage, George and Ron at the front desk were red-sky at night. Sailing to, Hermione took delight.

But it was morning. She should have taken warning.

Her mouth sparkled, years of well-tended teeth beaming toward camaraderie. Knee-high armor shed slush (her boots) and she wasn't tentative. The excited trudge was childhood and the proprietor caught sight first. And though his grin still held shadows, the delight was genuine. The twins had always held space in Hermione's heart; she mourned for the Fred-hole it now housed. But George, by George, she was glad to see the living. His arms opened and she made to fill them, this brother. A laugh bubbled up as meters closed. Until the only partition between family was ai—

Lights. Wall. Pain.

Hurried feet, customers scadattling. The door swinging open and shut too many times.

Her right side smashed, and head cracked, on the wood. Pain burnt behind eyes. A sharp snap and her pinky broke, caught at a funny angle. She thought George cradled her head, supporting her crumple to floor; his hands seemed to stick to her hairline. Fuzzily, this confused Hermione. But mostly there was an aura of mushrooms and green light. She floated in vertigo, unclear on concepts and existence. The moments took time to steady. Time must have passed, it must have. For she greyed-in and out for years. But when she came to, only seconds had gone, and it was skirmish that met her.

"Mate, are you bloody off your rocker?!" A voice hardened, nothing like the candied nuts he sold. George's wand trained on threat.

Her bones dug into floorboards and she quite thought it odd that the skin of her knees felt grit. Winter dampness. Her jeans must have ripped. Trembling she consulted her banging head with hand. It pulled away hot with pain and red. Eyes struggled to refocus, and the sight she found shattered lenses.

Her once boyfriend. Failed as that was.

"She's fraternizing with the enemy!" Scarlet as his hair, Ron snarled incredulous vitriol. His teeth seemed incisive.

Despite the exigent situation, George found skewed amusement.

"Even if I _entertained_ agreeing with that…you really think then, that your _best_ solution is an unprovoked attack on Bellatrix Lestrange's wife? You need to sort out your strategic failings."

He wondered how thick his brother could get. Bellatrix was a volatile volcano in everyday form; the witch would be impulsively lethal when in lo—when married. Ron merely brandished his wand; George, the only wall between Hermione and further hex.

In the corner, pale lips trembled correction.

"Black," whispered out her lips.

A correction that neither man heard. Black. They were Blacks. Bella. She wanted Bella. She curled up to the wall, fetal, and tried to stay awake as concussion called. His humor had been in hope of diffusion. George was well conscious of the girl (woman) huddled and hexed in his shoppe. She'd made him a cake once. He recalled frosting, and wondered when war had destroyed the people he knew.

"Bloody hell, Ron, your priorities suck."

But his voice muffled, or her ears did. After that, Hermione missed minutes, shell-shocked, due to the dueling pains that accosted. Consciousness flittered in and out. Vaguely, her mind disoriented. Drifted. A long ago lesson from muggle grammar school; something about bananas. Her desk had nice sharp pencils. And then the classroom started raining…she thought it odd that her nose and head dripped the wrong colors. And Curious George…why was the monkey shouting…

"…been eight months, you bugger! Get over your fucking prick, she'd happily fuck McGonagall before you. Hell. So would Lavender."

Clearly it had escalated.

The crackle of spells accompanied such classy words. And outside the shoppe, the rubbernecking spectators had an obscene light show, flashing neon signs on the snow. No one thought to alert the Aurors. She tested her body, hissing, knowing she wouldn't have a better chance. Movement was still a problem. Foggily, Hermione assessed, but her thoughts chopped. Her head managed to understand.

_'Weasleys. Hex. Concussion. Dislocation. Duel. Bella. Bella. Bella. Need Bella.'_

Gritting her teeth she attempted at wand in jean pocket, and hissed as her shoulder screamed. She ignored the dislocation, and willed her fingers to move. Seconds, really. But it felt like hours until hand finally found wood. The hold was weak. But there. Okay. Feet. She needed to find her feet.

Unfortunately, that required exertion…the noisy kind. It caught attention.

George wasn't prepared for mudslinging. Literal and otherwise. But Ron hadn't been on a Horcrux hunt and learned nothing. This particular spell shot underneath his arm, spewing muck and sludge.

Mud.

It coated the witch head to toe. Everything stopped, suspended. And George broke stance, horrified, looking between his brother and Hermione. The witch, had found legs, and slumped against the wall. Her lips quivered, hands numbed. She spat out a mouthful.

Drip.

Somewhere outside in the distance, carolers dinged bells.

Drip.

The silence imbrued badly.

Blood drip.

Mud drip.

Mud. Blood. The slurs mixed, and found the floor. Their human source was rickety on feet, with empty eyes and dirtied jeans. Soaked hair dripped red-browns and streaked her face warred. She cradled her injured arm, wand awkward but steady in left hand. Her modified _Reducto_ was well aimed and well powered. Well controlled. It struck Ron square on the heart, and blasted him clear across the room…a domino starter, toppling display cases.

Three breaths were too loud in the war room. From the floor, a bated one baited.

"Filthy Mudblood dyke. That's all you are, an ugly bitch for an enemy witch. I hope she fucks out your insides and uses them to shine Malfoy's boots."

Hermione's soul splattered against the wall, amongst the missed spell contents.

"She won't even want you now. _Mudspell_ will remind her what you are. Dirty."

She locked eyes with George. He knew the crack before it happened, and he prayed to the gods of yore that she wouldn't splinch.

"_Immobulus_…"

Ron froze in space, odium and awful still coating his features. And the limpest Patronus that George had ever produced sprinted off to McGonagall. The Ministry could have its politics later.

* * *

**Author's Note II:** R & R, my dearies. If you follow/favorite me (tumblr or Fanfic account) AND review each chapter of this story, I'll be inclined to write you a drabble of your choosing. Brownie points for those who understood the play on words regarding this chapter's title.

(Credits for entire story: _Counting Crows_ – A Long December; _Edwin McCain_ – I'll Be; _Damien Rice _– 9 Crimes; _Don McLean_ – American Pie; _Florence + the Machine_ – Howl, No Light, No Light; _Green Day_ – Longview; _Gregory Maguire_ – Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West; The_ Harry Potter _movies; _Idina Menzel_ (Frozen) – Let it Go; _J.K. Rowling_ – the Harry Potter series, _Once Upon a Time_, the TV show; _Sholom Secunda_ – Dona Dona; _Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs_,the Disney movie; _Sweeney _Todd, the movie; _Third Eye Blind_ – Semi-Charmed Life; _Walt Whitman_ – I Sing the Body Electric; _The Wizard of Oz_, the movie)


	2. Pancake

"I bloody miss the house-elves."

"Language, Draco."

Two heads tipped back, regarding the ceiling and its newest pancake. Half-fried batter stuck better than any sticking charm. And so now there were six. The kitchen hosted these awkward polka dots, complete with a dribble onto Draco's head.

"Truly, to spare us all, you couldn't have gone with a simple casserole bake? Surely, the oven could have better contained disaster." Idly, he flicked the beige sludge off his cheek.

Narcissa scowled at her son, still gripping the frying pan, menace in her knuckles. As always, her voice was calm and frozen.

"Pancakes are apparently a staple."

"And yet, you don't see Bellatrix cozied up to an apron."

Silence was the amusing answer, and they both looked to the backyard, yonder on the property. The bordering woods. Neither was surprised to see their volatile relative stalking a buck with bow and arrow. It was an oddly primitive sight. But a suiting surreal. Cissa tsked, strung between carry-over distaste of muggle weaponry, and approbation. She fell somewhere _in_ _medias res_, looking forward to venison.

"That's _Aunt _Bellatrix to you, Dragon."

"Of course, because truly I endeavor to piss off the she-devil that stalks creatures in our shrubbery."

From this, an earlier pancake took cue and fell, squelching and landing on blonde locks with a plop. He sighed. His mother stifled a chuckle, and drew her wand. Clean-up was in order.

"I think I'll name this bugger Bellatrix." He peaked out from under the pancake-hat, which face-sat. "Their inclinations seem similar."

Narcissa's eyes bugged, and you could hear the dirty wheels spin. Accidently or not. Draco blinked, unfortunate associations lending to smutty epiphany. Matching her gutter.

"Are you mad?! Not like that! Ew freaking ew, Mother, that's disgusting." His face stuck between horrid and flushed, and he thought of Blaise. He couldn't decide what exactly put off: the idea of any woman riding his face or the less-than-savory incestual nuance. But then humor in the Black-Malfoy family had always tended toward dark. And he had his suspicions.

In this, she did not disappoint.

"I see that telly-thing of Hermione's has injected oh such _lovely_ Americanisms into your repertoire." Regardless of the awkward subject, her eyebrow hiked, displeased and amused. "And besides, while we're on the subject of _belles_..." Black ooze pulled her lips into ambiguous smirk, tweaking at gay. She gestured with her wand. "Don't knock it until you've tri—"

A different kind of splat entered the kitchen.

It thudded and kissed pain to the floor. Cissa startled, hair-triggered from the awful years. Reflex, and wand shot stunning spell. It was only Draco's quick hand that knocked it off path and straight out the window, which shattered. The glass was nothing. Snow winds howled their frenzy, taking greedy shelter in the warmth. The resulting draft was chilling. Obscenely, it was accompanied by indignant shouts from the distant wood, creeping closer on the wind. Cissa winced, and grew bad feeling as to the deer.

They stared. Tharn. Uncomprehending of vision, and the floor. Surrealism at its best: the bloody muddy Hermione Black. Broken on their marble. Again.

She'd splinched. The avoidance of such had been improbable, in her state. But Hermione had needed out. And out she took. She flinched at the impact. And understood too quickly that flesh was missing, chunked from her left thigh. Faintly, she approved at the absurd level.

_'At least this balances out the shoulder.' _

Red spilled out, femoral body ink imbruing jeans in awful dark wash. She bit her lip in mind-fuck, hating the mud that seeped into her wounded body and mixed with her pulse. It cut harsher than the pain. Humiliated and felled, much like Bella's trees, still she sought speech, even as severity crumpled on the kitchen floor.

"C-cissa…"

It was Cissa she spoke. But Bella she begged for. Wild eyes pleaded, dying in too many ways. One of them, being the most pressing. Narcissa knelt. She grasped the girl's hand fiercely, wand already magicking and midway through diagnostics. This sister she had gained. She would not loose another. No comment, as Draco repaired the window. The draft wouldn't do anyone well.

Another pancake fell. It wasn't funny this time.

Apparition crack sounded. And then trompings of feet in the foyer. A distinctive thump: the dulcet sounds of animal carcass unloaded. Most likely on heirloom floor tapestry. Lingering fits of smoke trailed the erratic arrival, and Bellatrix was danger, making way toward kitchen. The lingering snarls were black, front scouts in the corridor. Her threats carried with the ephemeral vapor. Malfoy Manor had an awful acoustic build. Screams tended to echo. Draco heard hunting gloves leather-smack the wall; Bella's retribution ruin. (A vindictive trade: her deer, for Cissy's pristine homestead.) But he was well aware that in retrospect, the resulting bloodstains would have nothing on the ones spilled on marble.

"Dammit, Cissy!" And Bella was ire in kitchen.

The angle was unfortunate, as the bloody floorshow was out of sight; the kitchen island blocked her view. Bella could see her sister busy, with something on the floor. And from the pancake-coated kitchen, she assumed it cleanup of another cooking adventure. Draco shifted, making toward her but hugging kitchen wall. (Less on account for escaping wrath, and more so anticipating what would come.) The witch spared him a brief glance, momentarily confused by his stricken face. She considered him, but her hiss burned remnants of leftover crazy toward Narcissa. It unnerved Draco as her eyes searched his for explanation, yet vitriol painted elsewhere.

"On the head of that _whore_ Circe…Cissa, I swear I'll eviscerate you and make Lucius fuck the entrails in his new lodgings."

Great. Draco took care not to show the shiver he felt. T'was an eerie and rather off-putting mannerism of his aunt's. And always good when necrophilic insults made it into potluck quarrels. Despite the situation, he managed a level of macabre levity, and raised an eyebrow.

"Any way you could manage your venom in another direction?" His drawl was more worthy of the peacocks he'd grown up near.

Draco's head tilted, indicating redirection. That is his mother, who should have, by all accounts, scowled. But he knew her attention was on that limp form. Mutters were silent, but he recognized those lip patterns as her healing forte. Bella's eyes fumed at him, but her restraint persisted. Faintly, he counted lucky seconds. Until he felt a mild stinging hex smart him in the forehead. Then he counted himself amused at what clearly was Bellatrix's awkward brand of affection. Even if it did hurt like a Blast-Ended Skrewt. But she did turn toward his mother, stepping. It was what he wanted. What they needed. His aunt was dangerous to interrupt in such a state. But they didn't have time for their regular ritual of Bella-bomb-disarming. That required, amongst other things (absurdly enough), pudding.

"I _fucking_ had him." Sibling rage was a bicker-some familiarity, as was her colorful art of delivery. Furious, Bella got to point. "Narcissa-fucking-Black, I bloody well had him! That's the third kill you've stolen this week, _my_ kil—" Bellatrix broke off; the sight of her sister crouched over something.

Someone.

At the break, Narcissa finally turned. Bellatrix found haunted eyes. Fear flickering there, in ways she hadn't seen since childhood.

"Bella…" The blonde shifted, her voice low and shaking. Pushing back her personal horror, in a moment of weakness, Cissa let the tear drop.

It was only then Bellatrix grasped terror. Moving from heart on her sister's face to the balled form, battered and curled. Jean-clad. And basted in filth. The deer issue was dead. Her face blanched, but expression blanked. Reaction held in, holding in anything. And Draco held to the island, thinking that the sliced apples upon it were cheery enough to prompt blasting. It was ungraceful, as Bella drop-plopped on the floor. Regal, as she violently kissed Cissa's forehead, her fingertips brushing wetness on the blonde's face. And trembling whispers there. She assessed the situation. Dark eyes holding panic and murderous promise. And Hermione was the draw in her breath, the nails raking her skin.

Three floor goddesses, Draco thought them, had they not been sitting in blood. Or perhaps, because they were.

Hermione felt faint, blood loss making itself known, spilling like ruby piano keys. Concussion, dislocation, and laceration: the proper chords of accompaniment. Her thoughts felt thick, heavy with the wish of sleep and drunk with discombobulation. But she knew the two shadows near her. Slitted eyes were sad honey and barely conscious — they reached for Bella's, speaking volumes they hadn't yet filled. Words still left unsaid. The bruising on Hermione's temple was stark, as was the odd angle of her shoulder…even through smears of blood and mud. The tattered clothing. Bella's lip trembled. Her witch's leg was exposed, jeans having been cut open. She fell into direction, a distraction she knew well.

"Her head."

"Yes I know."

"Cast a full bo—"

"Already done."

"Why haven't you—"

"The mud is magical in origin, no chance of infection. Priorities first."

"Why hasn't she—"

"You very know well what the spell does."

"Her leg—"

"If you'd shut your awful trap, I'd clean it faster."

Sure enough Cissy's wand was trained on the limb. Concentrating, as were the furrows in her brow. Between the sisters, all apologies were offered, understood tacitly. And the silence left Hermione and Bellatrix alone, even in the presence of family. Narcissa moved onto magical stitching of sorts, causing Hermione to cry out. Hoarse shrieks banged, like banshee pots with spoons. Instinctively Bellatrix reached for her wife. But pulled the need at last seconds, her own emotions terrifying in overwhelm. She avoided touch, as if it would make the awful scene less tangible. So the once-murderess settled for flexing fingers, wandless magic exploding all breakable objects in the vicinity.

Including that of the window. Again.

Anticipating, Draco had instinctively shielded them. Startled magic centered on his mother and former classmate. The outer-edge remnants offered his aunt some amount of minimal safety. Glints of external purple mixed with his, blanketing the two women. And he quite suspected Bella had done the same as himself, shielding (excepting herself, of course). Bellatrix, he knew, wanted the pain. Glass slivers glittered in her hair, and sparkled like snow in the chamber lowlights. Her habit of long sleeves and billowing skirts protected most skin, but she hissed as bites made themselves known on exposed neck and _décolletage_. For moments, Draco had adult eyes, and _saw _his aunt. He wondered how many times she had turned to self-mutilation, to avoid tears.

But the initial motion had not been lost on the Gryffindor; the pulled touch. And Hermione stared at her filthy hand, misinterpreting the entire exchange. Ron's curse didn't help. Much like a Horcrux, it played on insecurities, twisting them. And this old pureblood curse was perhaps worse. For it kept its evil internal, and the victim confused what thoughts were their own, and which shames weren't real. Her soul shook, thinking that Bellatrix disgusted at the dirt inside her, now displayed for all. With mud paint, and blood accents. It wasn't so far off a possibility, the recent past…case in point. And it wouldn't be the first time her blood status came between them. Tears leaked, cleaning squiggles onto Hermione's cheeks. And she pressed herself closer into the floor, face tasting pancake mix. Marble. The spell wreaked and brought forth past as torture. The drawing room. Bella's breath. Carving. Chandelier. It felt too real, and knives dug into heart, laughing the whole way through. Insides stabbed, folding into themselves, and all she could see was her wife's trademark sneer.

Nothing.

She was nothing.

Nothing.

She was soiled, and muddy. The lowest creature to flop on this earth. Her body shook, for reasons outside blood loss, outside the wand that knit muscle and pulled skin back over her bones.

"Bellatrix, you harpy. Fix that." For once, Narcissa's voice held emotion. Even if her words approached from disconnected mind-set. "Fix it. She's thinking wrong." Admonishment, yes, but mostly affection for the two women who forever communicated with misunderstood hiccups.

The girl refused gaze, and trembled woes beyond physical pain.

Taking in the whole picture, Bella understood. She understood too well, because mudblood scar still reddened the girl's arm, tattooing doubts and their separate worlds of birth. It still stood between them, even if it had damaged both of their psyches, under the cover of double-agency. And the witch, her witch was painted with slur and prejudice. Bella growled, the unpleasantries of plotting revenge. This…particular state was an old style tar-and-feather of the magical world; a favorite during the First Wizarding War. Branding. Shaming. Soul-shaming, down to the most inner of layers. She grasped that muddied and bloodied hand.

Deliberately.

Hermione didn't _let_ her eyes meet glowing orbs; they simply captured her. And the warrior cherished scraped knuckles, pledging fealty, her lips stalking danger and home base.

"Name him. And I'll fillet the bitch. You're no one's muddy. No one's…but mine." Bellatrix was clear, speech her darkest tender. Snarling and promising.

And in a move he thought far out of reach, Draco watched Bellatrix take fully to the floor herself, and make it bed. She slid next to the chit, and cupped the battered face. Kissed the split lip — blood, mud, and all. And on the floor, pressed to each other, the lieutenant made them equal: filth coating her corset. And Hermione finally cried, breaking in Bella's mouth. Howling out soul into the witch's neck. A second tear made its way down the healer's cheek, though Cissa's mien was impassive as the snow outside and the unforgiving marble in.

"Bella…hold her." Clinical.

Blue and Black met. And Bellatrix rolled the girl over, holding the wounded still as big spoon. Cissa attacked and thrust the arm back into socket. Those howls. And from experience, they both knew…a one fell-swoop-course, would hurt less than two.

Hermione didn't realize when black swept her mind and took her consciousness. Only that Black held her safe and everything hurt.

* * *

**Author's Note:** R & R, lovelies.

(Credits for entire story: _Counting Crows_ – A Long December; _Edwin McCain_ – I'll Be; _Damien Rice _– 9 Crimes; _Don McLean_ – American Pie; _Florence + the Machine_ – Howl, No Light, No Light; _Green Day_ – Longview; _Gregory Maguire_ – Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West; The_ Harry Potter _movies; _Idina Menzel_ (Frozen) – Let it Go; _J.K. Rowling_ – the Harry Potter series, _Once Upon a Time_, the TV show; _Sholom Secunda_ – Dona Dona; _Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs_,the Disney movie; _Sweeney _Todd, the movie; _Third Eye Blind_ – Semi-Charmed Life; _Walt Whitman_ – I Sing the Body Electric; _The Wizard of Oz_, the movie)


	3. Unwrapped

The end of the night. And Narcissa took both to now and thens.

The room was empty, but filled with current unpleasantries (Hermione's torn eyes and dirtied skin. The graveyard her sister carried.) And most heavily, their collective sins weighed. No longer wanting to stockpile such awfulness, Cissa considered distorting all containers in the manor, perhaps throwing them to fire and brimstone. The Manor walls were imbrued with enough macabre to outlast a millennium. Dark magic lingered. And she quite suspected bad begat bad in this house. Like poltergeist it wandered through the halls looking for outlets. It would struggle against Cissa's white magic. It would settle in Hermione, dark attracted to dark. She considered, frowning. The kitchen was tainted now. She flipped through mental rooms, discarding all but three. The garden shed was a less than sanitary option. And the attic was rickety. But her bath, perhaps…She didn't recall any torture having made home there. Plans nodded in her head.

The blonde stripped, divesting herself of clothing. Cissa felt less like naked citrus, and more like exposed wand core. Once immaculate clothing…was streaked. Blood and mud. Pancake mix. Bellatrix's lividity. But the healer had gotten both of them to bed. A bed. Now naked, Narcissa sat upon hers; the pristine of clean skin an eyesore, mocking her highborn privilege.

Water in her washbasin.

Cissa scrubbed her face too hard. But the vanity showed blood still, painting her eyes with shadow. A makeup she'd worn too long for a good year, or two, to erase past misdealings. She took a hairbrush in hand.

She and Bella. They were violence. Guilt. Love. And unexpected saviors.

Mud...blood. Windows. Marble. Pancakes. Arm bent unnaturally. Narcissa shook her head, eyes attempting to squeeze out the graphic images of the evening. Unwilling to dwell on the current, she reflected, revisiting why any of this had happened in the first place. She didn't magick the fireplace, though wood was abundant. Cold shivers seemed the least she could do, to repent at this given moment. Hands considered the silk, the nightgown on the duvet. And she wondered how often in childhood she'd taken the material for granted. The fabric induced symbolism, and she scoffed at the barrage of mind, wondering how her newest sister had faired at school. In their weathered world. And whether_ silk_ interactions had met Hermione at Hogwarts.

She brushed harder, catching more than hair.

But Narcissa suspected, correctly, that Hermione had only worn _threadbare_ receptions from their society. She briefly acknowledged that neither fabric was optimal (that was flannel). But she kept the silk punishment between her hands. And kept her nakedness. Some things didn't die. Gooseflesh crawled her, and the witch was too heavy-handed with the brush in palm. Face impassive, Narcissa pushed the bristles too hard into scalp. The next morning she would wash out the streaks. Dried and crusted; the black-fly blood in her hair.

Guilt. Atonement. Renewal.

Hermione had uprooted their rotting tree. Made them saplings again. Grew them in Cissa's kitchen. Both sisters had managed to avoid_ that_ conversation. Neither had much desire to psychoanalyze their inability to intake affection. Not even from their newest Black. At least Cissy had found interpersonal deterrents, her posture, her lack of response, and once, a well-aimed but accidental punch. But Bellatrix. And the blonde had quite the notion, that her sister had finally stumbled upon a battle where she lacked weapons.

_Just hours ago, young teeth had flashed bright, thanking for something mundane. Narcissa thought it might have been the passing of sugar. Something inane. And sunrise sprouted over breakfast table; Hermione had been hazel and flecked. Gentle, as she regarded Narcissa. Comfortable with Draco next to her (she'd stolen a kipper). But at Bella, her face gleamed, shy and too much like love. The girl's morning smile. It had been an innocent and haphazard thing. Too honest. Too everything. After scarfing her eggs, Bella had fled with her skirts, billowing. She'd stomped up the stairs, mumbling, something to the effect of,_

_"Cheery fucking people. I ought dose you with scalding misery." A door slammed upstairs, distant and close. A muffled (but loud enough) scream sounded, guttural and uncontrolled._

_The girl's brow had furrowed, recognizing there to be some nuance she had missed. But Narcissa caught Hermione's coiled potential, looking to spring after the enchantress. _

_"Don't." _

_There was no elaboration, merely warning. And briefly, the blonde had attempted at touch, hand curtailing, on the girl's arm (awkward as this motion was). She knew manifesting such would win her intent. Hermione surprised at the offering, caught between confusion and the brink of understanding. But she had let it go. Both oddities. _

Love hadn't a _visual _place in their house, not for decades. Though it did live there, sleeping

Between son and mother. The kisses on his slumbering forehead, which no one saw. Abundant parcels sent to Hogwarts with no notes. Draco at the Zambini's on the pretense of good networking…when she knew her son had better reasons, involving dark skin and sheets. The new and expensive dresses, which frequented her boudoir. Books hidden under her pillows, speaking of wondrous subjects, those that a female child of her generation was often denied. Mother's Day flowers.

It lay in Bella's insistence upon dressing her sister, tying corsets looser than they ought have been. The bruise salve smelling of pine and esoteric in craft, which always appeared at her vanity. Following times when the blonde was hurt, love lay in the furious torture Bella enacted, and Cissy (pretended she) didn't know of. In the years of misplaced loyalty and horror, it spoke as scheming subtlety. Lucius sent on every mission possible. This, Bellatrix's silent and hopeful manipulation: creating opportunities for his death, or at least his absence. It was the not so subtle lovers sent the blonde's way, warming her nights when she let them. Lovers that never hit. And then one lover in particular, nose as prominent as his presence. And in later years, it was the amused smile playing crimson lips on breakfast mornings; the thinly concealed _muffin_ comments when Severus was there, absurdly _buttering_ toast. And after his death, it was Bellatrix who let Cissa scream without question; the steady curls in her bed, the ones that took absence of tears, let her cuddle. Like they had as traumatized children.

It was the collected wildflowers Narcissa set by the witch's window. The stalks laid on Bella's pillow (Queen Anne's lace), promising she deserved softness and good things. The cup of perpetual tea, in every room the witch might be. Bitter, dark as Bellatrix liked it best. The safe-haven of quiet, as Cissa washed Bella's hands, when the witch couldn't bear blood any longer. And yet, it was the sharpening of her various daggers, arming the lieutenant with points and safety. It was the ritual goodnight kiss on a jawline, acknowledging a past that was theirs and no longer…once forced by perverted patriarchs. In recent times, it was Cissy, fondly shoving the new lovers outside, to frolic on the hill. Resulting in Bella's rare smile, which lit the world. It was never calling her Trixie, even though the ammunition was tempting.

Love was polished boots, which the warrior knew weren't magicked clean of their own accord. They were far too practical a notion for Narcissa. And the death eater knew she had a nephew. Bellatrix told herself it was only for functional reasons, that his broomstick updated every year with the latest model. And that she hexed him at every turn, honing his skills. She told herself it was safety in numbers. She told herself many things.

Love. They kept it.

Always under wraps. Unmentioned. And now, it flowed unencumbered from Bella's partner. They didn't handle it well, either sister (Draco merely seemed bemused). They handled the innocent touches even worse. The first time, Cissa had quite smacked the girl by accident and pressed herself to the wall, reversion and past coating her face. This, before realizing the secret was out. But Hermione had merely apologized, softly, whispering comfort over and over into the stiff body. Hazel tears leaking, because Cissa's would not. The Gryffindor hadn't stopped kind touch. But after that, she made sure frontal miles lay between them, always approaching those blue eyes head on. Hazels disarming, much as Cissa knew it had her sister.

Their affair had bloomed oddly. She'd watched and played Bella's confidante during the volatile unfolding of events. It had been a strange romance, between Cissa's favorite witches. Hermione didn't take well to spontaneity, and Bella not well to prudence. But the girl had accidentally become the woman's handler (being the only one to realize Bellatrix had pulled on her attacks during the _Battle of the Department of Mysteries_). In the beginning, they had hated each other more than anything. Bella's reluctance toward amicable circumstance and relationship was typical. And Hermione was more than disinclined to attach herself to such wild creature. Upon the revelation of their association (of the frenemy style or not), Minerva had blown a gasket, snarling her encouragement; it wouldn't do to stop such advantage now. All was fair in war. As such, insults were their coping mechanism, and dueling their method of intensity.

And at some point (during the arduous process of living and double-crossing), loathing segued to tolerance. Morphed into begrudged appreciation.

Secrets.

Secrets ended the war. It was a clusterfuck of alliances, ones they didn't fully realize until later. They all played sides, played spies. In crude nutshell, unencompassing of everything: Dumbledore handled Severus. Severus fucked Narcissa. Narcissa played confidante to Bella. Bellatrix's handler was Hermione. Hermione confided in Minerva. And much to her discontent and amusement, Minerva handled the _Hellatrix _duo (as she exasperatingly dubbed it in her mind). And oh yes. Dumbledore fucked them all over. Winning was losing, in many ways.

Despite the late headmaster's plotting, Cissa doubted that Severus alone would have been enough to tip war's favor. Especially as neither side fully was aware of his loyalty. But together accidentally, Snape's deception, Hermione's hesitant trust, and Bella's unenthusiastic alliance won the war. And in strange ways, such accomplishment bound the former enemies closer than their individual allies. And with Severus' death, they lost a discovered brother. Cissa, a lover.

Bellatrix had trained the girl, telling herself it was only means to meet end (and perhaps at the back of her mind, to assuage Minerva). So the warrior had pushed and punished, until the witch was beyond formidable. She found herself a capable protégé, and Hermione found a new magic. The Gryffindor burst into preamble novas, as small things about her unsavory companion became…savory. And in the duration of forced education, Bella found herself a new madness. She named it sanity. She called it the girl, and she fought against the affection. But it was there, veiled in the worst of her moments. She lashed out, placing any and all distance between them.

Narcissa wasn't sure that carving into the girl's arm hadn't been a myriad of satisfactions for her darker sibling. But she _was_ sure it had been protective as well. Undercover brothers-in-arms stuck together, even in torture. They hadn't spoken of the closeness. Bella, not to Cissa. And neither of the fighters, to each other. But the touches grew. Even if words aloud remain harsh, in juxtaposition to their craving hands.

Fucking, was really the only reasonable course of action.

* * *

**Author's Note:** R & R, dearies. I had the urge to explore Narcissa a bit more in this. But I suppose you'll forgive me, as the updates for this are frequent. And the next chapter has lovely Bellamione amusement.

**Review Responses:**_**  
**__- Mochi, guest reviews on Chpts. 1 & 2:_  
I had an urge to write a post-war fic, with dark and quirky poetic tones. *laughs* My Bella is, in general, a very creative individual. She's not a fan of the boring, that's for sure. Glad the Malfoy levity of pancakes struck you as adorable. I had great fun bantering with that section. I mention a lot of characters in this story, but keep in mind that this truly is an AU Bellamione story (albeit with large supporting roles from Cissa and Minerva). The story assumes that Draco and Blaise are…whatever they are. I do like to leave some things unanswered so that my readers can imagine what they will.

_- Guest review for Chpt. 2:_  
Lol yes, my Ron is often a total bastard, as you put it. Super happy that you're loving the imagery in this; I appreciate your er...appreciation.

(Credits for entire story: _Counting Crows_ – A Long December; _Edwin McCain_ – I'll Be; _Damien Rice _– 9 Crimes; _Don McLean_ – American Pie; _Florence + the Machine_ – Howl, No Light, No Light; _Green Day_ – Longview; _Gregory Maguire_ – Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West; The_ Harry Potter _movies; _Idina Menzel_ (Frozen) – Let it Go; _J.K. Rowling_ – the Harry Potter series, _Once Upon a Time_, the TV show; _Sholom Secunda_ – Dona Dona; _Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs_,the Disney movie; _Sweeney _Todd, the movie; _Third Eye Blind_ – Semi-Charmed Life; _Walt Whitman_ – I Sing the Body Electric; _The Wizard of Oz_, the movie)


	4. Credence

Fucking, was really the only reasonable course of action.

The only response to such damage in society and souls. They didn't speak to love. Not even after they married. In fact, the latter had only happened at Minerva's insistence. (It was uncanny how the professor knew they had changed from reluctant allies into something resembling lovers.) Apparently, McGonagall insisted, betrothal would do wonders for their…case; the trial by society. Or at the least, Skeeter would turn it into a celebrity debacle, spewing the idea that love was their motive. (In Bella's case it had started as indifference, a disinclination to be stuck in warring limbo for all eternity. Double-crossing seemed interesting at least, if not ignoble. Hermione was noble enough for the both of them, her original motive: a wining strategy. Bellatrix had just been the means.)

With "love" their story, there was little likelihood that the Ministry would chance the political upheaval of executing a Golden Trio spouse. The idiot pundits would rather keep their own hands clean, and let the rabid dogs of citizenry tear them apart. And so Bellatrix had to hand it to Minerva; she had a political mind to rival Cissy's. But escaping by nuptials did seem like…an extremity. A brilliant one, at that. And so shortly after the Dark Lord fell, they married.

It was Minerva's fault.

* * *

_In the middle of Hermione's 6th year (Severus-shenanigans still a ways off), the Deputy had taken to parlor visits. Equal parts as handler and something __resembling_ friend. It was both exceeding uncomfortable and refreshing. It forced her students (Bella still included in this category) to break from their incessant training. Gleefully, Narcissa left them to it, all too happy to annoy her sibling with Minerva's presence. Still. The unlikely duo knew this was McGonagall's show of support (for the clandestine weekends when Hermione snuck away from school). But conversation was a dangerous endeavor, like pulling teeth from a pit bull. So they usually ended up silent, over tea. Sharing space, and separate in their divergent book worlds. 

_A particular time. Out of the blue,_

_"You should marry, before all is said and done. Once we win." And this was how Minerva broke the usual silence of room. (In retrospect, if this referenced Severus, she never let on.) _

_The professor was far too matter-a-fact, letting this tidbit slip over the pages of her book. But then again, it wasn't often she proposed someone else's marriage for them. Certainly not over tea and nonchalance. She eyed the witches with purpose, and enjoyed crafting schadenfreude amusement. Two books snapped shut. One by way of surprise and flailing floor decree. The other in furious intrigue. _

_"Are you insane?!" _

_It didn't matter which of the witches shouted. It could have been either, at this point. But McGonagall assigned the tone of incredulity to Hermione. She flipped a page. These two could do with some levity. _

_"I think that particular title belongs elsewhere…in this room." Facetiousness, truth, was flotsam and jetsam in her mouth. _

_And when irate magic pried book from her hands, Minerva was prepared for it. She remained unconcerned, as it whapped her upside the head. Wisely, the sage had let that go, knowing this was tame from the likes of Bella. As it was, Bellatrix scowled in pin-drop silence, twirling her wand in menace. She let Hermione handle their common mentor and the woman's idiotic suggestion. The lieutenant-spy didn't trust her mouth to refrain from Crucio._

_"I can't even disagree with her response." Hermione smarted. She flashed an odd expression toward her counterpart, but then cut glare at her eldest mentor. "Puh-lease, Professor! Because branding Bellatrix as Sapphic will so exponentially endear her to the public." Sarcasm was rampant._ _Weeks with Bellatrix had rubbed off, and Hermione's first response was caustic. The Gryffindor was less concerned with her own sexuality; being branded as know-it-all already had rendered her as outcast. _

_Next to her less-than-concurring companion, Bellatrix chortled on the couch. If the Muddy thought one way, she'd think the other. Such was the life of the devil's advocate. Though ireful at…everything, Bella seemed most amused at her slapdash companion, and quipped. _

_"I think you're discounting man's reliance on prick and his endless quest for wank fodder. Just think." Bella paused, sardonic with drama. "…Your Ronikins and all the Weasels will be satisfied for weeks. Call it charity if you want: we win the war, use them as fallout decoy, and they get to choke chicken to death for all I care."_

_"Bella…that's bloody disgusting." Hermione was appalled. _

_Minerva winced at the crude point, but couldn't disagree._

_"Miss Granger, unfortunately, her sentiment has credence." _

_Bellatrix preened at this, all too happy to make McGonagall traipse the weirdness of agreeing with her. The professor shot the grinning witch a look, one that would have spoken detention, a score or so ago._

_"We must plan for aftermath. Once this—" Minerva avoided label and motioned between the two, "…becomes common knowledge. Give them gossip. It would distract the media and public from…legal issues." She didn't speak to Bella's atrocities. There wasn't much to say. Only that, "The best way to smooth over scandal is to give them a better one." The professor imparted this as she would any other lecture._

_They all sat on that sentiment for a moment. Skeeter would do the work for them. It would almost be too easy (and a tad pathetic that gossip and titillation would trump warfare revelations). But even Hermione had to concede there were only three things sure in life: death, taxes, and press. She felt ill. She felt…flushed. And too aware of Bella next to her. _

_"Minerva," Hermione spoke plainly. "I swear to Godric — if truly, we're entertaining plots of lesbianism to induce fapping, you will call me by my first name."_

_At this, their resident dark witch perked up, happy to insert her own brand of mayhem. _

_"Now now, Mudpup, simmer down. It's hardly a plot when it's true." Salaciously, she baited, "Or was I just imagining your face between my legs last night, and my tongue on your—"_

_"BELLATRIX!" Hermione shrieked, none too pleasantly. _

_Minerva pinched her nose. This, so not a conversation she wanted to have with her student. Either of them. As such, she glared at her first protégé, blaming. _

_Bella choked on her cackle. "Sapphism employs less plot than you think. Besides, it's far better than being spastic. Or would your rather continue to fling books about?" Smirk and wink wanded Hermione's fallen book to shelf. _

_And Minerva quite had the impression that their conversation now passed through her. Those two were sorely bent on bickering, like the married couple Minerva would orchestra them to be. Well, Narcissa in actuality. Like she would deprive the socialite of such pleasure._

_Hermione was less than amused. (To some extent this soothed Minerva. There was love there, between them. Just not quite yet.) _

_"The Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts suggests a gay engagement over tea, and your first concern is bent pages." The statement was just that. No question hinted. Though incredibly, Hermione did shade it with the slightest pout. _

_"No, Muddy." Sarcasm was liberal in drawl, "Clearly, my concern is our color scheme. Red, I think. The murderous metaphors will be to...die for."_

_Minerva quite snapped at Bella._

_"Don't discount your notoriety, Bellatrix. And despite your awfulness, I think we could use such propaganda. I do think you can abide kissing your…lover in public, if it saves you from another kiss."_

_Bellatrix's blanched slightly. The term lover and the idea of Dementor fate, sitting nastily between her ears. She schooled her face, emotion unreadable. _

_"Fine then. It's settled." Her eyes caught Minerva's in odd knowledge, as she spoke to Hermione. A head inclination. "Dirt, consider us engaged." Bellatrix casually rotated her wrist in odd flourish. An obnoxious ring appeared, heirloom old, styling Hermione's hand. Somewhere upstairs, they heard Cissy squeal…as she recognized the familial magic in air, and its meaning._

_"You could ask, you know." Hermione gazed at the future, her expression teetering on repressed happiness. _

_"I could do many things." But the tone left room for improvement._

_There hadn't been argument after that. For Narcissa bounced into the room already chattering about invitations. Minerva merely cast a cloaking spell, hiding the ring from public, and sipped her tea. But it hadn't erased the sparkles, the veiled hoping in Hermione's eyes. And the professor had quite thought she saw affection surface in the hardened warrior._

* * *

Narcissa recalled. And she considered.

That this did not a functional relationship make. Cissa was well aware of the fickle and unperturbed creature that was her sister. But even the unassailable Bellatrix seemed uncomfortable with blithe warmth of Hermione in their marble palace. Sex was one thing. But the lover, Bella hadn't expected…the love she didn't speak of. They didn't speak of. This witch covered it with sarcasm, and biting language. Violence against trees. Narcissa knew from the way her darkest sister had to pull back casual touches in the day. She knew Bella let her softness out at night, in the cusp of realities. Knew that Bellatrix loved the girl without her words. Only with soundless breath, as if she believed the eyes in the walls were merely shut during the crease of night, before page turned.

This Cissa understood.

Some things were too hard to voice in the tangibility of day. Narcissa had been only too happy to join the pack, the plotting. Draco's silence to the matter indicated he had switched sides long ago. But as mother she didn't want to know. She hoped Severus had guided him. Hoped that they had always been on the same side at all times. But she knew this was unlikely. But in the end, they were. And this had to be enough. There was no other option. Still, she didn't wish to think of Bella pitted against any of them. Even unknowingly. So the timeline was never broached. Even with their defection, the reluctant ex-Malfoy was too entrenched to expect forgiveness. It came anyway, from too many places. Bella's mentor. Her son. The girl. (Forgiveness between her and Bella was moot. There was nothing to forgive in their eyes. How could you forgive survival?) And she learned (attempted) to cook pancakes. Because she couldn't return the embrace, that her sister's chit gave on the regular. Soft and familial.

So yes. She understood Bella.

But this winter had brought slow thaw to Malfoy Manor. And to the coldest sister. It was Bellatrix who had always felt too much, even in atrocity. And too perfect to love them, Andr— their lost sister had felt only _right_ things. Cissa supposed that had left her to feel nothing. And Bellatrix had let her, as this was the best protection against the whippings of parents and marriage. Recent months had helped her heart defrost. Slightly. Not even the warmest of smiles could melt such a lifetime of cold. But they certainly tried. And tonight she wasn't pleased with the pain, that such disturbed vision had wrought: sister and sister-in-law entwined on her marble. Society's hatred manifested and sticky between them. Blood, oozing horrors onto her floor.

She'd felt.

And when they were better Cissa would punish them for it, with glaciers. For the icicle they'd made her melt into tear.

The worst of injuries healed, she had thought it best to call it a night, leaving the morning to bring disaster. Destruction was ever so much easier to handle, when that bugger sleep was out of the way. To an extent, with some odd bent, she was pleased Hermione had lost consciousness. Let the pain slumber 'til dawn. Let her sister hurt herself another time. Let them, her dearests, please and please, hold illusia in each other's arms, until it broke with the sun. And let her deal with the pains of a spring-heart in the morning, and sleep like winter was still hers.

In the aftermath of the evening's destruction, Bellatrix had fallen asleep against her unconscious lover, puddled on the kitchen floor. Lips still parted in whisper.

Cissa decided the bath could wait until morning. The spell had already spread. And at least now in the unconscious of magically induced sleep, Hermione could avoid living it. Draco had lent his wand, assisting. And between the two of them, levitation to a guest bed hadn't been much of a task. Merely a silent one. She wouldn't sully their marriage bed. Not with this slur. In the current social climate, St. Mungo's was too great a risk. Homebound was their safety. Especially as the exigency of the current situation was unclear. In wartime, different procedures would have resulted; such attack against the Black-Malfoy clan would have warranted…unseemly things. But even Narcissa was unclear as to the protocol in times of amnesty.

She had her thoughts on the bed. They had little informa—

_**CRASH.**_

A prowling Patronus leapt into her chamber; it scared the bejesus of out the naked blonde. However, its missive was clipped…but useful.

"Aurors notified. Git apprehended. If you've suspicions, refrain from Bella. We can't handle retribution. Pomfrey on standby if assistance needed. She suggests submerging them. Potion. You know the one."

Well then.

That would be Minerva's doing. Cissa dismissed the beasty feline with a sharp nod. It nuzzled her. And things as they were, she let a hand grasp its shining fur, taking…something, from the tangibility of its magic. It dissipated, job done.

Cold eyes iced.

But she put the nightgown on.

* * *

**Author's Note:** R & R, my lovelies. More to come soon.

**Review Responses:  
**_- Guest review for Chpt. 1:  
_You're sweet. Glad you like my "riveting" words, as you put it. : )

(Credits for entire story: _Counting Crows_ – A Long December; _Edwin McCain_ – I'll Be; _Damien Rice _– 9 Crimes; _Don McLean_ – American Pie; _Florence + the Machine_ – Howl, No Light, No Light; _Green Day_ – Longview; _Gregory Maguire_ – Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West; The_ Harry Potter _movies; _Idina Menzel_ (Frozen) – Let it Go; _J.K. Rowling_ – the Harry Potter series, _Once Upon a Time_, the TV show; _Sholom Secunda_ – Dona Dona; _Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs_,the Disney movie; _Sweeney _Todd, the movie; _Third Eye Blind_ – Semi-Charmed Life; _Walt Whitman_ – I Sing the Body Electric; _The Wizard of Oz_, the movie)


	5. Bubble

Hermione wasn't expecting to wake amongst bubbles. Surprised, she breathed funnily, and sneeze took her. A strangled noise from her mattress. Clearly, Cissa's sleeping draught had worn off. Bella had hoped the magic would dam the horrors to come. If only for a while longer. She went with normal.

"You are so lucky I'm fond of bubbles and _choosing_ to ignore your snot spew." Bellatrix drawled, slightly perturbed at such rude awakening herself.

Groggy, Hermione nuzzled into a forgiving chest, content with the rumble of sarcastic standard. Tucked into Bella, her lips chastely brushed the woman's clavicle; her headrest. Arms pulled further into embrace. She rose with her wife's breath, nearly lulled back to sleep by its rolling timbre. Soft. Firm. Warm.

Wet.

It took several heartbeats, but then her mind squinted at this last circumstance.

"Beds shouldn't be wet…" This mumble she voiced, as speech and thought were yet to be connected.

Despite current events, Bella had to snort.

Fingers confused, as Hermione plucked at waterlogged fabric floating about her. The soaked corset behind her. A face scrunched, as wet jeans plastered to body made themselves known. An eye (just one) trudged open. It regarded black ones peering down at her. Bellatrix let the girl orient, and watched the unexpected show. Hazel eyes blinked out sleep and took in surroundings. Bella might have been her mattress, but Narcissa's coveted bathtub was their bed. Hermione jerked, discombobulated. Filigree silver and tiled majesty were not substitute for understanding. And she certainly didn't understand why they sat submerged to chest on the perimeter ledge. Still clothed. Bella her lounger, bubbles their sheets. She felt magic in their shine, a strange cleanse.

It smelled of potion.

Curls tickled her cheek as Bellatrix leaned forward, brushing lips at Hermione's ear. The fine hair at the nape of neck. The kiss trembled for reasons she wouldn't articulate, and Bella rather tried to avoid thought. The girl was nestled between her legs, inside her arms. She held the sacred torso as scared wrapping. On the ledge, their hips stacked perfectly. Much like those obnoxious American chips, of which the girl was so fond. _Primples_, or something to that effect. Their legs entwined in the sit; Bella's calves and ankles protective vines. Her breasts pressed into the girl's back; and the warrior wasn't sure whose terror she had meant to assuage with this position. In that moment, she had fond thoughts of her sister — knowing the blonde would answer _both_. The woman was infuriatingly capable. This bath, the result of such competence. And care.

It had Minerva's touch to it as well.

Bellatrix rather suspected they knew more then they told. But for the moment she was content to let their magic and savior tendencies benefit her…wife. Being in the good graces of the sovereign of Hogwarts (and unofficial potion mistresses) did come in handy.

* * *

_She'd woken in the early hours, itching. Woken, a laughable term for what she'd done — considering sleep was not a hold taken. Bella had merely benchmarked in doze, too alert to let unconscious drown her. Too disturbed on unearthed levels to let easy escape come. Unlike the charge in her arms, her clothing wasn't sodden. But it was caked with enough blood and mud to make skin scream. The spell wasn't contagious. But its remnants were. She scratched at her neck furiously. The chit's hair had lain there through the night. And Bella quite already had a raging rash, creeping red and angry as her soul._

_"Stop that. You'll wake her." From the corner, cerulean voice chastised. _

_Bella had sworn in surprise. She glared at Cissa, unceasing in nail antics. The blonde's sense for propriety popped. _

_"Heathen."_

_"Yes. Talk." Bellatrix wasn't having it. _

_Narcissa sighed. _

_"One might think you'd be polite, after your lov—_

_"You killed my deer. Again." _

_But Narcissa heard the tremble, the avoidance._

_"And judging from unintentional past, I probably will again." Cissy spoke nothing she spoke, her voice gentle. "The bath, Bella. It'll cleanse what it can. But you have to…you know what else. There's no other way to remove the spell in its entirety. It requires…reversal from our kind."_

_Bellatrix was quiet, considering the small form plastered to her, like bear cub in cave. _

_"And her soul?" _

_"The bath, Bella. But I quite imagine that what you're really asking, is up to you."_

_"I'm not weak." Bellatrix whispered._

_"No. You're not. But she doesn't know. She doesn't even know that you know, let alone return it. And she'll hide hers until you move first. She fears losing you."_

_Silence from the bed._ _Narcissa sighed again._

_"Come, first things first. I'll even add bubbles."_

_"I'm not five."_

_"No. You're you. And when she wakes you'll have…decisions to make. Now get your arse out of bed and help me with her."_

_And together they did just that. _

* * *

Hence their position in the magical bath, clothed and all.

Exhausted, Bella had fallen back asleep, content to hold Hermione and let the magic work. Though gross, the mud from the curse wasn't of natural origin. Secondhand contact induced something akin to a magical itch; it tended to manifest physically in rash, prompting the desperate urge to scratch. As such, the darker witch had been all too happy to sink into Narcissa's concoction. The potion healed on the topical level, as well as internally. Time, however, was crucial, as the potion was slow acting and relied on cumulative effect. She had hoped the girl wouldn't wake for another few hours.

"I can't decide if I'm dreaming or awake in bubbles." Hermione stirred, confused at her surroundings. A faint but audible churn in her stomach. And then awareness: she felt unpleasant. Like the water was damming something.

"…in my clothes?"

"You sneezed yourself awake, dear. I have the snot to prove it, if you're so inclined." Humor, but Bella's lips were quiet, a rare tone tasting on them. "And we're wet because we needed the…help. Cissy's bath. You must recognize her stupid style and tinny facets of overwhelm."

Even groggy, Hermione had presence of mind to chortle.

"Bella, please tell me this isn't some strange plan for Manor domination? Draco would play both sides, if only for Cissy's cooking. And I hardly fancy your fascination with water-guns in the dead of winter." Hermione's voice rasped with sleep, with something else unidentifiable.

"Now isn't _that_ a gem idea." Power hungry drives would never die in the dark witch. Despite the situation, Bellatrix entertained it. She always did.

While her lover fantasized, Hermione made use of the distraction. Still unclear on the events engendering a fully-clothed bath, she evaluated. She ached something awful, as if her body had been folded for too long. The tip of her consciousness flailed about, not grasping at something important she'd forgotten. Seeking intimacy she cuddled into Bella, wondering why they didn't do this more often. The touching. Despite the welcomed rarity, onerous nausea climbed in her. Pulsing. Rising. Scared, she ignored it. Told herself she was spinning imagination.

Bella finally came to pointless conclusion.

"I think Cissy would have my head in the end. I quite suspect she'd never surrender her prized hedgerows. But the war would be worth it." She was too serious while plotting consanguine battles on her mind-maps.

"Why isn't she in here too?" Hermione mumbled, struggling to grasp situation, any situation at all as to why they inhabited Cissy's coveted pool. She tried not to notice as saliva gathered in her mouth and queasiness grew in strength.

Behind her, Bella sputtered, not really wanting to touch that statement. But she played along, unclear…suddenly wondering if the potion had memory modification elements after all.

"She was…otherwise occupied."

The girl nodded and shifted uncomfortably. A strange taste spilled into her mouth. And unthinkingly she muttered, as random fragment hit her.

"Pancakes. Can't imagine why they were on the ceiling. The floor."

In the ornate tub Bella stiffened, even as the aloe made itself known, soothing. Preemptively, she pressed herself to the girl, awaiting consciousness to reemerge in full.

And it did.

* * *

**Author's Note:** R & R, dearies.

**Review Responses:  
**_- Guest review for Chpt. 4:  
_Not to worry, my dear. Bellamione POVs will happen again and more often from this point on and forward. "PS Love that this is all completed. It gives me such a sense of security reading it, as opposed to the usual terror I always feel when great fics are posted and then never updated. So thanks for this! xx." This made me laugh, relate, and preen. You're welcome lol.

_- Mochi reviews for Chpts. 3 & 4:_  
Cissa is an ice queen, but I like to think that Hermione thaws a strange part of her heart. The war. I do love showcasing manipulation, makes for fun exploration of characters. *snorts* Wisecrack McGonagall. Quite an apt title I think. Glad I made you laugh; dark humor is dear dear love of mine. I like ambiguity and entendre. Leave things open for interpretation. And that, honestly, is the best part of reading: you get to create your own images in your head.

(Credits for entire story: _Counting Crows_ – A Long December; _Edwin McCain_ – I'll Be; _Damien Rice _– 9 Crimes; _Don McLean_ – American Pie; _Florence + the Machine_ – Howl, No Light, No Light; _Green Day_ – Longview; _Gregory Maguire_ – Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West; The_ Harry Potter _movies; _Idina Menzel_ (Frozen) – Let it Go; _J.K. Rowling_ – the Harry Potter series, _Once Upon a Time_, the TV show; _Sholom Secunda_ – Dona Dona; _Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs_,the Disney movie; _Sweeney _Todd, the movie; _Third Eye Blind_ – Semi-Charmed Life; _Walt Whitman_ – I Sing the Body Electric; _The Wizard of Oz_, the movie)


	6. Killjoy

**Author's Note I:** And let the dark!smut fest begin.

* * *

The world machine-gunned into her head, and havocked moan burst Hermione's chest. She felt the tendrils of memory take her, stab her brain with splintering stakes. She wailed awfully, and it bounced off and on and around the room, drowning them in echoes.

"Muddy-dear, I've got you." And Bella did. "You've got a nasty couple hours ahead, cycles to live through."

Hermione howled, having figured that out for herself. The curse's immediate effects were well documented: magical contractions of a sort. And Bella couldn't…couldn't begin to entertain other remedies. So she told herself the bath would be enough, despite Cissy's warning.

"I hate you. I hate you all." In pain, angry at the pureblood world, Hermione spat her last seconds of true lucidity. Never seeing Bella's eyes flash in acceptance and flickers of old vendettas.

"I hate you too, Mudpup." Tone was unclear, but held some semblance of truth. Just as her arms held some semblance of wife. The girl was delicious in rage. And unable to help herself, Bellatrix bit Hermione's neck…sinking teeth into the situation. In promise of companionship.

Or other things.

Hermione moaned. A peculiar sound, speaking her gratitude and loathing. But her knuckles whitened, with such force she held onto the woman. It hurt, as the curse encompassed her magical core. It broke in and laid its spiny eggs, breeding contempt and cesspools of sick. Protected in Bella's warmth, the girl faltered something awful. The girl concaved with the calumny, soul-smeared with everything she doubted about herself. With everything society had placed upon her kind. She was murder. She was fallen grace.

And she was mud.

Magical contractions wracked her frame. And she realized that whatever magic the sisters had poured in her, soaked her in…it only delayed the inevitable. Curses such as these usually had no true antidote. Just a course to run, staggered with optimal times for assuagement. And though not quite herself, Hermione was herself enough to assess. To understand that the induced rest was their weapon and enemy. Although she was stronger, so was the curse. It let her know strength: it penetrated her cells, and she quite dreamed about murdering Ronald. His family. She dreamed of disembowelment charms, and fucking Bella in bed of fresh intestines. Lips were licked, brain realizing she was mostly out of her mind. But Hermione couldn't manage to care. She savored it. And deep dark inside she hyperventilated, cowered under herself.

So instead she screamed; raw emotion's solution.

And she was a mass of fury growing; tumor in her own head. Hurting at nothing Bella had caused, at everything Bella had caused. In her mind, she hit the wall in the Weasel shoppe over and over. His words slimed her frontal lobe, and seeped backward beliefs into her fingers. Mud splattered her mind continuously, pooling in her stomach and making sludge of her veins.

Tears.

They lit trails in the rising sun; liberal on her face, absent on Bella's. The sunrise shot marmalade through the windowpane…happy-go-lucky amongst violence in the tub. It was quite beautiful. Bellatrix was unnerved. She settled on that emotion, unwilling to trowel deeper and identify her bone composition of repressed feeling. The warrior had broken people before. Had enjoyed it immensely. But this…she was aware that this break was beyond anything committed with her red hands. This cracked the soul into fault lines, both magically and emotionally. The sobbing hurt her. She never could stand it when Cissy cried. But this. Hermione was desolation, mad destruction sitting on her chest, under her frantic hands. And worst of all, a large part of Bellatrix reveled in the devastation.

(Best of all.)

Bella protected the girl, hands upon wild heart and belly. And she rocked them. Minutes. Perhaps hours. Words died for them, for some time; trading hate vows had sufficed. So in the grand bathroom, language bore silence. It made Hermione's screams shatter the air. But there was little else Bellatrix could do, as the soul shards stabbed the witch repeatedly. Her mind nagged…there was something she could do. But Bella had her faults. She needed…time. They didn't have time. But she avoided, and instead appealed to Hermione's sense of academia and retribution.

"_Cenum Maledictu,_" she taught. "Literally, mud curse. We call it _mudspell_. And when I find him, Muddy-mine, I promise you murder. I'll make him swallow Fiendfyre. His idiocy will burn him inside out."

It had been a nice run, Bella thought in fantasy; this dig at freedom. But she wouldn't deny her base self…not for the likes of a ginger blood traitor. So she assumed. (Cissy might think her daft, but it wasn't a difficult jump to hypothesize the culprit.) She'd make an insect out of him, and fry his exoskeleton. Reveal the mush underneath. And not even the bars of Azkaban would dispel her pleasure of that. But such things could wait. The first cycle of madness hadn't dissipated for Hermione (the first was always longest). A hiccup coughed her acknowledgement of Bella's dark vow. The contractions ripped her body and brains; she coughed out odd vitriol.

"I want to burn the mud, Bella. And _girl-to-girl_, I want to burn you dead." Head turned, and Hermione cherished the column of Bella's neck, pale and 93 under her lips. "_Him_, I want red and crispy."

If Bella was disturbed by the keening madness (segueing back into soul-groans) nothing changed at all. She let the girl spit yells and twist, and merely spoke possession.

"Your dirt is mine in every way. No one else's. Not even a spell's." The lieutenant's breath was quiet, words oozing. She let darkness roll over; a best friend reacquainted. "And when all is said and done, if you still want him red, and myself dead…we'll talk."

Torn from insane throat, Hermione's horrid sounds didn't end. Nor did the shaking body. But Bellatrix knew from the smallest of particular twitches, that Hermione heard. And if her witch had any room left for lucidity, then it spoke in her mouth tremble, grazing Bella's cheek. Perhaps agreeing. Perhaps frantic argument against. Bella returned to academia.

"This curse is meant to…"

"I very well know what it's meant to do, Bellatrix." Hermione snapped, as clarity without filters hit (an apparent lull). "I'd rather you be a cunt than treat me stu—" Caterwauling yells finished the thought.

And Hermione buried further into the woman, as another cycle of the curse contracted. For once the ex-Death Eater allowed such backtalk, without engaging her battle tongue.

"This. It's meant to do this." Full lips whispered into honey locks, rocking them again. Though for whose sake, Bella wouldn't tell.

A hand. It grasped Bellatrix's wrist, shaking. Hermione's neck suddenly twisted, desperate lips attacking Bella's mouth and salty tears bathing the woman's face. They were always fierce, in training. In war. In torture. In this. And the lieutenant couldn't help but return the kiss. Anything. Anything to get them away from…this. She nipped, bit. Took, gave. And when breathing finally became exigent, Bella tipped their foreheads together, ignoring Hermione's hands seeking purchase.

A particular purchase.

"You little idiot, this is no time to be thinking of sex."

"Kill me," Hermione rasped, the breath of desolate words slipping into Bella's mouth, twining with tongue.

And after so many months of careful walls, Bellatrix was laid bare. Desperate. She claimed the girl's neck, biting refusal with tears stinging anger. No fucking spell from ancient past would destroy her wife. Bella simply refused. No one would destroy that girl but her. And she would do it well, if she must. Teeth. Hermione moaned and cried soft tears; the cycle once again in lull for the short moment. The moment passed. Pressed against Bellatrix in the bath, the golden girl had trouble discerning reality. It both eluded and brandished itself into existence. And she throbbed, a magical ache with no possible descriptors. She floundered in the grandiose tub, limbs wracked with involuntary trembles. Her sensations were off: intangible and too sensitive. Cheesecloth strained her brain, and choked logic. Faintly, Hermione knew the dark witch grounded her physically; strong arms keeping safe and hugged.

And for once, sarcasm was absent from the lieutenant's vernacular.

"Muddy-mine, it's not real. You're on the brink of too many…things. I promise whatever you see or hear from inside…it's not real." The voice was throaty and everything against her jugular. Lips. Hunger. Amelioration.

But safety was an illusion.

As was much of their the water heat, nipples strained through cloth. In their cocoon, Bella's rasped against her back. The demons danced; Hermione's magic unstable. And she wanted the woman to break her wrists and fuck her. Depraved, lust rose. And she bucked against Bella's pelvis, that mouth still working her neck to bruise and beautiful batter.

Bellatrix hissed.

The curse. And doors Hermione had locked in her head, burst open. Black caves. They swung and gaped, filling with internal storms. And once again, Hermione was in the drawing room. For the bath fixtures shone, flashing chrome in the morning light. They were the knife silver, sharpening in her skin. Carving and branding her muddy. Branding her Bella's. But this time she craved it. She was dirty. And dirt needed to be cut out. The witchling rolled her hips, wanting nothing more than to kill the woman. Kill them out of all of this. That…or fuck. Bella had customs of breaking her in better ways. But the curse bombasted her body, pompous in its bravado. Hermione was gone, present enough to rile the woman, but unaware of the matches she struck.

And she filled its demand.

"When you carved into my dirty skin, was that alliance, Bella?" Madness, but search for truth coated Gryffindor lips. "When you fuck me in this house, do you dream of that day on the floorboards, with your knife and your bigotry?"

Bellatrix delighted. She hated. Fingers bruised young skin as they rolled salaciously together; curving bookends, breathing sweat and arousal into the room. The witch teased jean-clad thighs. Hating that a mudblood could engender anything in her. Hating that the world hated her beautiful mudblood. Surrender was imminent; firm beats calling their hearts, damaged or not…together. Calling them: wife. This always angered Bellatrix. It always soothed her. Pink tongue traced earlobe and shell, waving sultry tone and ambiguous words, coating that ear with horridness. She snapped a whisper.

"Yes. You're a_ filthy_ mudblood, darling." The slur dragged out to throaty. "And it felt so fucking good, to remind you of that." This was punctuated with hands…working nipples through the girl's jumper. Darks rasped, "Did you think my affections rendered that moot? You'd be mistaken; you'll always be dirt." Hands played over the girl, eliciting twitches; Bellatrix's expertise at instrument.

It was the best answer that could exist between them: True. Gut-wrenching. Filled with smut on the lips. Arousal. But it was a hard-pressed game to discern whether this was bed-game, or life. And in her alien fog of mind, still, Hermione quite suspected both. She wasn't satisfied. But Bella wasn't done.

"And you, stupid thing. When I fuck you like the filth you are…do you not cry out for more?"

Bellatrix pulled exquisitely on nipples, hands having made under the imbrued jumper. And indeed the Gryffindor cried out, body contorting for more. Bella took control of their movement, legs twining once again around Hermione's. She reveled in the torque created, and conducted their hips. The warrior pressed them into obscene hip rolls, lecherous and wretched. And Bella led dance, lewdly. Her breath was even, but the smallest hitch broke rhythm as Hermione made home in her core; grinding, arching for that hand teasing nipples. Despite Bella's drenched skirts, the curve of Hermione's ass made friction a fast friend.

She drenched in other ways.

Hermione gasped, the curse forcing madness and depravity…trembles. Bellatrix forcing quite the same. The girl moaned, having inclination to tear out veins, rip open her wrists. Give them to the dark witch to drink and spit back in her face. She _saw_ herself drenched in blood rivulets; Bella's tongue savoring the spatters of their murder, and carving new wounds into her flesh. The curse wreaked the worst of self, twisting around her mind as perverted truth. This spool of self-deprecation coiled and wound her tight. As did Bella's hips. Heat. Death in her mind. Safety and danger on her body. In effect, it rendered little separation between the curse's malevolence and the demons they already owned.

Madness reigned, and she was bedlam singing.

"Bellllla dear, let me claw your skin, dig my way in." Sanity teetered back for surreal moments. "It's only fair, considering you carved me open like those fucking turkeys, still strutting on the property. You should really drag it out, you know…as you send them onto Azkaban. I'm sure Lu-Lu will appreciate the dismembered company."

Bellatrix chuckled at that, rewarding the girl with particularly savage attention; pulling nipples 'til they elicited shrieks.

"Filth…" was her word, both epithet for the girl and response to that entire…exchange. All it entailed. Bella couldn't help her approval, even if it was the girl's base nature speaking. Still. Her malevolent tendencies found great softness, at the corruption. Gently, Bellatrix tipped the girl's chin back to her, caressing bone structure and delighting in the delicate framework. The angle was romantic, something art would capture. And she rewarded such wickedness with a kiss; sweet and out-of-place in their fuck-fest of debacle. It amplified the lo— affection she held for her witch.

Affection.

She went with affection. The kiss trailed down that swan neck. And Bellatrix tasted innocent goose flesh. The smallest breath of a moan was soundless vibrato, fluttering a youthful pulse point. And the lieutenant wanted to protect and defile her lover. She was nighttime fear; the girl was morning when it was clear.

Yes. Lover.

Bellatrix would concede to that. It didn't break her mind as she thought it would. She smiled, tongue caressing her canines. Hermione felt the joy crack against the side of her neck. Cursed magic rumbled about them. If they had been paying attention, they would have seen sparks on the water. But Bella was fixated on grinding, savoring pretty dirt. And Hermione was in a fucking strange place. Literally. And so the mudblood disgusted herself. Hated that Bellatrix, the last, best lieutenant of the Dark Lord, was reduced to such pet names:_ Filth_. Not even for her whore, but for her wife. She hated that her body housed such filth inside, and quite thought her organs must be blackened, rotted. Maggots crawled her mind, and wanted Black boots in her ribs…kicking her to bruise, to orgasm. Reminding her of her filth.

Her original sin.

But then…clarity struck; the cycles seemed to be getting more frequent but shorter. A full-force Hermione quote, then. But it sounded just as mad.

"Too bad Cissy's not here." She moaned, timing it for perfect delivery. Food would do well for this. "I'm sure she could give you lessons in fucking-over filth. After all, I do bend over for her in the kitchen quite often. You _know_ how she hates reaching those bottom cupboards. I swear, Bellatrix. My back hurts for days, after our…sessions. But at least she and I get to eat something sweet."

The manipulation was clever. But so was Bella.

"Really?" Following the hair wrench, Hermione's head jerked back, baring her as a possession. Bellatrix was infuriated. "You really think _now_ is the best time to play at jealousy? When you're curse riddled, fucking, and having a dark-to-heart conversation?"

"No. I think you're a cunt. But at least you're my cunt."

The fury dug fingers into Hermione's thighs, nails piercing through denim, either in punishment or restraint. Perhaps hurt. But the maddened girl found open moan as delirium took her…as arousal took her. She moaned for this wicked witch; this counterpart she died with, lived for at every waking hour. The sleeping ones too. In her already sodden clothes, a new wetness had pooled. And in her ear Bellatrix was too calm, to be anything but rage and lust underneath.

"Pretty sounds. But don't poke me right now, foolish girl. That wasn't the curse, my dear, and I won't be so forgiving of your stupid sanity." Bella growled, hands rising to possess the girl's throat. Hating how good this encounter felt, in its injury.

"Oh I know, Bella. I'm counting on that." Hermione moved her hips, whimpering at the feel of the witch, warm and wanting on her ass. Whimpering at the fortress she antagonized.

The water sloshed in pretty ways. The hand on her throat was clear warning, a comfort. They writhed together in the tub, and Bellatrix did what she did best in their marriage. Her free hand slipped down. Between sodden jeans and underwear. She cupped heat, tantalizing, making circles over the wet cloth. Thin, but it remained their barrier. And her breath hitched once again, softly. Nothing else to indicate arousal.

"B-bella…" Hermione moaned, reaching back to tangle hands in Black mane. Inbetween hitched breaths, she whispered. "Please. P-please. Bella…I need…" Hermione rocked, seeking more of those fingers. More of anything that felt like hate or love. Every motion ground her into Bella's core, slid Hermione's cunt against those enemy fingers married to her.

"I know." And a silent _Divesto _had them bare and against each other.

Hermione had time to mewl in bliss, before cycle was upon her again. Agony in all ways now. They rutted, recklessly. It was a frantic beauty of bodies. And Bella's fingers slid home firmly, filling Hermione to the brim of something she would call happiness (had the demons swarm not lodged them in hell). She cried out, hearing Bella's chest rumble at the completion. It was too perfect, too heart-swelling. Hermione had to hurt it. Had to hurt herself. And hurting Bella was the best vehicle for ensuring imminent punishment. The curse coursed her soul. And Hermione let cruelty take her tongue. And she let the witch take her.

"I hope your parents fucked mud like me…oooh maybe Cissy has fucked mud? Your other sister has. How lovely. You three could be a packaged mud-fucking set. What do you think, Bellatrix? Maybe she _had_ me before you. Maybe your ex-husband did too. In that dungeon of yours. How thrilled you must be, to be fucking his cock sheath."

Around Hermione's throat, that hand tightened, pressing down on airway. And Bellatrix screamed murder in the room, fucking the girl's cunt with sadness and jealousy. Hermione felt the ireful tears drip down her back. Riotously, she satisfied; knowing she hurt them both with this. The Gryffindor choked on air, spots swimming before her eyes. But Bella on her throat…it protected the Gryffindor from the full consciousness of this world. Madly, Hermione's half-sobs turned to cackle.

Too reminiscent. Too Bella-influenced. Too in the past.

Her mind was addled and Hermione just wanted it to end. She wanted to peel her skin back and watch wounds ooze sludge from inside, offer it up to her dark mistress in twisted accomplishment. Fingers bayoneted, forcing her to shakes and moans. And Hermione thought the perpetual scarring on her forearm was deserved. She was dirty. She hated Bellatrix for showcasing it; she loved her for being truthful. She loved her for invading insides, and making her drip with want. The Gryffindor reveled in the fingers that took her furiously. And her heart tore at the pain she'd caused her lover. Those lips, angry and trembling on her neck.

So much pain for them. So much pain. Pain. Penetration. Please. Please no. And then Hermione's mind broke, associations her trigger. Past her enemy.

The tub wasn't there anymore. It was _him_ in her.

* * *

**Author's Note II:** R & R, dearies.

(Credits for entire story: _Counting Crows_ – A Long December; _Edwin McCain_ – I'll Be; _Damien Rice _– 9 Crimes; _Don McLean_ – American Pie; _Florence + the Machine_ – Howl, No Light, No Light; _Green Day_ – Longview; _Gregory Maguire_ – Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West; The_ Harry Potter _movies; _Idina Menzel_ (Frozen) – Let it Go; _J.K. Rowling_ – the Harry Potter series, _Once Upon a Time_, the TV show; _Sholom Secunda_ – Dona Dona; _Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs_,the Disney movie; _Sweeney _Todd, the movie; _Third Eye Blind_ – Semi-Charmed Life; _Walt Whitman_ – I Sing the Body Electric; _The Wizard of Oz_, the movie)


	7. Conversation

They had never spoken of it. The rape. Hermione's.

* * *

_Serendipity and Bella had found her, the unexpected victim. _

_The Dark Lord had granted the mangy beast play. And while far from a complete turn of loyalty, the witch did not fancy setting such debauchery loose on London. The lieutenant tracked the werewolf's subpar magic to Hogsmeade, not willing to chance what she'd found anyway: a fallen lump of blood and destruction in the alley. Matted hair and pain. This met her, against broken bricks and a water-dripped wall behind the Shrieking Shack. This small pile of shaking limbs. _

_Female. Logical eyes had trailed liberal bites on the wretch's skin. They exposed, red and angry. A shrewd assessment, but Bellatrix found the tarnished silver lining; atrocity, yes…but one from human form. Lycanthropy would be no worry. She had crouched, a first compassion in ages. She didn't touch, merely breathed. Waiting company for a stranger. _

_But then dead eyes turned. And she knew them — Potter's mudblood. It had been not so long since the Department of Mysteries. But long enough. And thus was their second meeting by chance. A surreal stage, where they passed no words between. The filthy thing had panicked for reasons of plenty, scrambling closer to the wall. But Bellatrix recognized it as halfhearted. She understood numbed eyes (they wanted that curving wand to end existence). The dark one had shaken her head, indicating a myriad response. _

_Truce. _

_And for the reluctant spy, the girl had lunged. Clung. Blood barriers didn't deter the impromptu embrace, despite two winces. And so the lieutenant accidentally held her firm enemy in incredulous arms. The awkward moment hung, and saved a torn soul from hanging. And for once Bellatrix didn't feel so prone to murder. Magic in the alleyway shot bright, highlighting the drab…the human spirit. But Bella healed the muddy, as best she could. Basic field treatment would hold for now._

_Something changed that day, when the girl, refused to let go. When sobs were absent, only a quiet desperation. And a lack of caring. And Bella's hand had done the only thing it could at the time, based on the drawing of their sides: it spelled the mudblood to Minerva's office._ _But as the girl smoked away in apparition, their eyes snagged…drawing new crooked lines._

_And the tentative allies…were. _

* * *

That horror burst onto their scene, as Bella fucked her wife. Frantic words out of world, sprung into theirs.

"Please no, please. It hurtssssss. _Stop_! I beg of you, not there. Not there not there _not _there not _there_. Pleaseeeee. No. No. No." Hermione sobbed, in two places at once.

A silent cry let out from the darker witch: horror. And immediately, Bella attempted to still them.

"Bella, please don't let him take me! P-please…where are you? Please. N-need you. Scared. And I love y-you..."

But oscillating between realities, Hermione thrust onto her wife's hand, whimpering pleasure and rocking terror. Bellatrix blanched, her throat clenched and disbelieving. But Hermione still bounced, walls pulsing: tight, with his rape. Slick, with Bella's safety in her depths. And so caught between awfulness and arousal, they fucked still. Broken by each other. Hermione in hysteria relived rape at the tendrils of curse…and her wife's unintentional hand. In madness she whispered to her rapist.

"You'll never have my cunt like her, you b-bastard. You never will, I love her. I'm hers, and hers alone."

And Bellatrix was soul-torn silence. Arousal and inexorable motion still coating her fingers, her core. Desperation tugged her heart into all emotions. But then the cycle ended, and Hermione's mind reprieved. Her body, however, fell into confusion. Feeling the change, the dark witch jumped at the opening, finally, managing to still them. Between Bella's hands and the past, Hermione's love benediction hung between them. The witch's hands were still cunt deep, still about throat of her wife. (Gentle and shaking now.) Her beautiful wife. Her beautiful muggle-born wife.

The unthinkable happened.

Bella cried. Gut-awful howls like bloodied feet on hallowed ground. She cried, as she hadn't since childhood. It was tearless. But unfamiliar with the sound, Hermione took it as rage. She pleaded, with her accidental wife. The uninformed love of her life.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Whispering her sin over and over again, Hermione hoped the woman wouldn't take revelation for truth, but for madness. Her hands gripped the thighs around her, apologetic in desperation.

But the woman in her, the body around her, only made that god-awful sound again. Bellatrix had known the girl's feelings, had denied it. Had told herself they had something, but it that wasn't _that_. Had told herself she didn't return it. Had insisted that the gentle kiss on Hermione's forehead, when the girl was stolen by sleep…didn't mean anything at all. And Bellatrix was right, of course. It didn't mean anything.

It meant everything.

And Hermione misread the situation. Perhaps had always misread the situation. But more likely she was simply off her rocker at that moment. She never meant to disclose; sane, she wouldn't have, well aware that their marriage had been but a strategic alliance. But for a mudblood to avidly_ love_ Bellatrix? Mudbloods were pets in the pureblood world; ardency beyond _loyal subject_ was considered a most grievous sin. A grave insult. Duels had been started for less. Hermione felt the mudspell spiral, dirty fractals coming back around. So instead of fervently deeming pureblood law as idiotic…Hermione hated her dirt. She imagined ripping open her ribcage, and presenting the destruction to Bellatrix. Anything to kill the fester inside. So the Gryffindor found mad recourse; a way out for the pureblood. She couldn't bear much more of this anyway. Unstable, she danced with death-wish and lunacy. Not realizing, this too was a cycle.

"Oh Bella, please. Just b-break it." Under that still grasping hand Hermione moved, indicating her neck. She found dark eyes, wide with everything. Wanting that to be her last glimpse of life, she pleaded. "Please. Just…put us out of my misery. Quickly. Before it comes back." Hermione's voice broke, accepting the end with rasping madness. Her hand rose, reaching, its back grazing those cheekbones she so did love. She memorized those still fingers within her. "As long as I die with y-you inside, I'll be happy. Please. Now. While I have myself again."

Bellatrix was many things, many responses as the demented entreaty hit her. The chit was unable to discern her own madness. And Bella wasn't in control. She was frantic, and spun the girl about…impressively not removing her sheathed hand. Hermione found crazed eyes, haunted and precipitous.

"Wha—"

"I FUCKING LOVE YOU!" The sentence screamed fury into the morning. To the girl on her lap.

Revelation in the light of day.

And then Bella found abhorrence, terror at such admission. Snarling, she found herself unable to escape, short of dumping the girl (mad or not) backwards into the tub. Well. That was it then. She bucked furiously, but Hermione shoved her push back — trapping Bellatrix underneath, a hand still inside the girl. Hazels hovered hazily, wide-eyed and too close to nose. Hands on Bella's jaw, traced incredulity. Sanity peaked out, barely. But there. And Bellatrix thought she saw her tempestuous lover in flashes.

"I'll strangle you myself, if you ever speak of such again." Harshness, violence bit out Bella's throat, as it always did in Black times of terror.

Suicide. Love. But it didn't matter, as the girl's eyes fully glazed over. Another cycle dragged them back to the dungeon of mudspell. And so, Hermione was quite unable to address the statement of ardor, however novel and revolutionary it was.

"Bella…he's in me. " Hermione whispered, her eyes seeing the edge of forest, feeling _his_ paws on her.

The terror in voice marked it as reality. And the dark witch reacted like any lover would: she was a wild animal, soul-shattered as someone hurt her mate. Her snarls jerked, trying to seek freedom. Trying to free the girl from her hand that rendered _him_, at the moment. But despite Bella's strength, the girl's position was unfortunate, as was the sanity teetering in and out. Bewildered, Hermione found herself alternating between captor and captive. Struggling, but all Bellatrix manage to accomplish was tearing ambiguous whimpers out Hermione's mouth, as her hand moved in attempts to pull out. Bellatrix wanted nothing of it, neither the beautiful heat, nor the breast in her hand. Not like this. Not with those awful keens.

"Hurts, he hurts—"

It was all Bellatrix could do to hold onto the thrashing girl with one arm. Her other trapped between clenching thighs. Perhaps Hermione's self-preservation amongst suicidality kicked some switch to on; her brain managed to hold further tongue, language, this time around. (But scalding screams still riddled the room…salting a neck.) Hermione's body, however, did not see so fit. She spasmed, crying out into Bella's flesh. The dark witch closed her eyes in sorrow, and didn't speak to the small climax, which riddled from cunt through her arm. It wasn't their orgasm. But rape's. Another warrior tear fell. And a fierce temple kiss on the panting girl acknowledged everything understood. And all that was not. They didn't speak.

Sudden lull.

Understanding hit. Hermione grew desolate, hating that she accidentally brought rape to their b— tub, even if from a curse's volition. But in sanity, it felt miles away. Or at least numbed. Full consciousness set back in as she clenched still, aftershocks slick around that hand. Bellatrix allowed the kiss, giving the girl home base, her depressed thumb stroking chin. And then Hermione's eyes widened to full moon, breaking their lips. Her witch's declaration sank in: _Love_. Bellatrix loved her. The whispered name she spoke, spoke too much. And Bella cracked.

"Bell—"

"NO! You want a revelation. And that's just a conversation I refuse to have _tonight_."

How could they? When the girl oscillated between nightmares in crazed mind, and dysfunction in the obnoxious bath. There wasn't time to patch the holes in her head, to reknit her sinews. The _fat_ of all this, was nearly too rich for Bella's perpetually love-starved heart. She needed a moment, perhaps a restart.

"Please." But hazels begged black, for either death or _death_, not caring which.

And horribly, Bellatrix couldn't tell if the girl was sane in that moment, begging for orgasm or oblivion. The lov— conversation would have to wait. And psychotic-break or not, she knew what the girl needed (however inadvisable the healers would deem it). But this was a fucked situation. And those, Bella had come to realize, often only resolved from a fucked solution. And in their case, it would be quite literal. In her rational moments, Hermione needed touch to offset the curse's replay of atrocity. Still.

"Fuck." In the moment, Bellatrix was never fonder of the word, finding that it quite expressed a billion things.

But there wasn't time to weigh pros and cons. At this rate, the girl would accidentally slit her own wrists in the course of this…fubar. So. Slightly uncertain, but needing action, the warrior's free hand stroked inner thighs, supplement to the slow thrusts (resumed) eliciting whimpers of desire. Bella added a thumb, circling her lover's hard clit, still wet with come. Their eyes never broke, Hermione needing to know who touched her. Fingers and thumb moved together, like grasping money. Bellatrix paid her worth, knowing this was the thing in life that held richness. Hermione went with the movement, riding that hand, straddling both sanity and Bella. Her hips undulated slowly; gentle in the snake's lap. She rode, knowing its fickle venom. But Gryffindor chanced a whisper, ducked into Slytherin ear. An out-of-place levity coated them.

"But it's _morning_, Bella. Wouldn't that make it a conversation your holiness_ can_ have now?" The delayed punage was inappropriate. Sane. And sorely needed to cut tension.

"Fuck you."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, eyes trailing their position: hand still buried in her cunt. Her own reached down to grasp Bella's, in reminder. Swiveling hips deliberately, she coated the serpent's digits wet, glistening from her little death and new arousal.

"But then I'm truly confused at to what we're doing at the moment." Hermione gasped, the words intoning a million shades of emotion.

The mirth was welcomed, not so much. But fingers never halted as Bellatrix scolded, letting the surrealism reign.

"You pleaded me to be your murderess. And mad as a hatter you're unsteady as to something so basic as living, and you think _mockery_ is the way to go?"

Bella's face glinted aggression. Her hands sparked like flints, magic surging with hips. Long thrusts spoke, whetting her point. Blessed heat clasped around knuckles and sarcasm, and Hermione moaned lengthy whimpers in pleasure. Moaned her need for speed. For Bella. Despite valid concerns, Bellatrix moved faster, pistoning now. Having no handle to find, let alone one from which to act as savior, she finger-fucked terrified anger into the witch. Lips trembled against lips. Neither quite sure who was comforting who. Hermione's speech stuttered, as concentration split between surreal interlocution and being spitted.

"I thi— oh r-right there!" Curls mingled (black and tawny), their faces close. "I think if you refuse to speak to l-love, then all I have at the moment are h-hands." A honey whimper. "And yes, mocker—" Scream resonated reemergence, a symptom of the curse twisting daggers once more.

So besotted hands, the dark one gave her.

Bellatrix slammed her mouth into yowling lips, scoured with torture. She ate the carousing howls, capturing sound and swallowing it down. She fucked her witch, trying to ground the chit with the physicality. The Slytherin's silence grew louder. As did the slapping sounds of fingers impaling quim, frenetic in uncharted and forlorn rhythms. The kiss was hard, cruel in spots; terrific in emotion in others. Bella took her anger out on the curse, by hurting its vessel. Pulling that body into hand, and slamming dominance into pussy. Screams of pleasure and utter desolation bathed them, the walls. Thoroughly.

Cries. Wrenched horridness. Pleasure.

And disembodied, Hermione dispassionately wanted to slit the bitch's throat, the one screaming in her head; she was not keen to retain a ghoul of such sound. Teeth claimed her neck. And then Bellatrix bit down her mark, piercing Hermione's shoulder. Canines hissed, and pain mixed with unspoken love, a crude declaration. But it was enough for the curse to recognize. The cycle squashed slightly, leaving Hermione in odd state of maddened sanity. Love was almost theirs. (If they could only see the damn solution.)

A break in the spell.

Fingers fucked harder. And Hermione's body wallowed in their wanton window. If today was her last, then she wanted it to count; she unbound herself entirely, letting Bella in, in all ways. The hand hurt her like flowers. She felt absurdly good. A perfect masochism tore her heart open, filleting her soul for Bellatrix. Spicing the meat of her being into delicious vulnerability. Hermione half-hoped the dark witch would strike brutally, with magic mallets and grenades in the hole. Her hole. She gasped, slickness coating her thighs, and soaking Bella's.

She wanted her fractured fairytale.

The dark witch knew this; juices painted the picture clearly. They had always loved destroying each other; a pastime, if you will. Angst they understood. Functioning without was inconceivable. And Hermione understood the life in Bella's eyes as they hovered in a place between murder and immortal things; the woman's dark orbs fluttered in pleasure. Clever tongue licked lips, savoring the greedy pussy at hand. It craved her.

Bella staked claim.

Hermione yelled out glory as fingers barged inside, hitting her sweet spot over and over. Breaking her beautifully. Honey waves threw backward, their curling tips grazing water as Hermione arched and came, overtaken by her lover's vim and denial. The witchling whimpered, rocking. Her hands pulled the heart-shaped face in, for mouthing salvation. It was a small crime, their lives. But they had no excuse. The next moments would be crucial (Bella's moments especially). She prayed they could pull each other through. Or find peace at strangling hand. So Hermione found time for soul irritants, as there wouldn't necessarily be another. Curse tendrils rose again, wandering through her soul, looming terrible tapestries.

"And still, you _fill_ me," Hermione's eyes infuriated, body writhing and stretched. "You call me wife. And yet you can neither abide love nor my death. Do tell me where that puts us, Bellatrix."

"Do be a good _fuck_ and shut the hell up, Muddy." The dark witch avoided the question without need for façade.

But Hermione wasn't inclined to obey, cursed with valor.

"But you won't give me the satisfaction of either. I almost suspect that without the former I'll up and die, with you knuckle deep. If only to piss you off." Morals skewed, Hermione moaned at such idea, finding it appealing. (Bellatrix nipped her neck, punishing…approving this.) "But if so, then you'll end up with the latter anyway. So please, Lieutenant of fucking nothing, choose your weapon of destruction or put me out of my misery."

"I hate you." Bellatrix snarled, pounding viciously into the stupid girl, volcanoes behind words.

They were enemies.

"I h-hate you, too." Hermione gasped, lips frosting her beloved.

They were lovers.

The spell tapestry wove looser for a time. And tremulously, Hermione reached and found her hearth at Bella's core. Fingers riddled, stroked living petals. And she thought the world would explode to know such beauty rested between the thighs of its greatest villainess. There was nothing better than being stretched by, for her demon lover, while inking fingerprints in the woman's shining folds. It was a tragic combination. And it made it impossible for Bellatrix to hate that willing hand. It shook worship in her depths, stoking fire. Fingertips burned; questioning strokes asking for permission.

Eyes locked, and pupils blew.

Bella's were dark with abyss, hoary with past and present. Hermione's fired comets in catapult launch, arguing for future. Two forces opposed and attracted, meeting in that strange place between parley and war. Not compromise.

"Let me in, before it comes back. Just once, Belle. I need something to hold to. To come back to." Hermione murmured, fingers poised against slick heat, waiting for entry. "Please, B-bella. Show me. Don't let something so trivial as pride, win. Especially when you know I would die…for yours." She asked for Bella's mind, and entry therein. Asked to see the love her stubborn ally wouldn't admit.

Bellatrix was a fury; red brains and talons. Shrewd with personal downfalls and the idiocy of allowance, her countenance shifted into brief seconds of insecurity. And she fucked such feeling away.

_But_ _would you leave me, if I told you what I've done?  
And would you need me, if I told you what I've become?  
'Cause it's so easy, to say it to a crowd.  
But it's so hard, my love, to say it to you out loud._

Desperate, Hermione met those thrusts. Bellatrix decided it was still her win if she chose a roulette existence, and killed this passive idiocy; took her demise like she took her coffee.

"This isn't a resolution." The dark witch promised one of them, but acquiescence sang her tune.

Wailing wrath, weak at the world, Bellatrix thrust onto Hermione's hand, suddenly filled and whole. They filled each other, a precarious hip balance. There were split seconds as her wife gasped and Hermione drew close to the edge again. Sensation burst into air, and dew dawned in hazels, as daylight became violent.

Bella spelled them. Legilimency.

* * *

_It wasn't like movies. There weren't scenes that rushed by. There weren't memories that showcased the epitome of a life. There were boarded-up rooms. Thousands. Hermione noticed the ax marks, those before her who had tried to bust in. She saw the torn curtains in the charred hallways and the desolation in the wood, and yes, murder in the framework. But she also found leadership in the doorknobs, and slivers of kindness in the splintering floor._

_The door to "Narcissa" was unlocked. Unmarked. She stroked it fondly as she passed it, knowing that was intrigue for another time. Still spelled, but Hermione thought two kisses thanked her for the trust. A rugged sign caught eye. A room marked "Hermione," scrawled in tiny letters, carved by knife. It hid, tucked away in the rotting and sturdy mansion that was Bella's mind. Hermione ran for it, heels clicking like music…running notes. She flung herself into the shut door, tasting felled trees and fire ash with the collision. But she fell through its solidity, arms scraped and fingers burning; she the first occupant._

_Inside was raw feeling, and Hermione doubled over at the warmth, the heat. The colors. The sounds Bella never made during sex, but stored here. The smiles over kitchen table that Bellatrix didn't know how to return, lived here. And most of all: the naked woman huddled in the center of the room. Hair black as Black and face shining like day. The warrior-witch who found love and locked it away._

* * *

And then reality returned.

Hermione winced at the rude reorientation. And Bella misunderstood the expression.

"I—"

"I'll curse you, if you force this conversation when you're half insane. And I'll murder you myself, if you attempt to make me your living suicide note. Don't ask me again, about either." Bella was an awful mix of storms and daybreak.

Hermione took the throat-jump response as the wrong time to point out irony. But she didn't correct Bella's assumption. They lip-locked in their bath-loch. Hermione tasted the ache as mouths finally parted. Bella's forehead bowed, laying strange surrender and protection at Hermione's heart. And then finally…Bella's hips moved of voluntary accord, manifesting all Hermione had found in her mind. They moved against each other, curves as graceful and choppy as the ocean. Hoarse and in charge, Bellatrix belied and rolled her eyes. But trembling gave her away, painfully fierce and ajar. It made her a hypocrite, reversing half of her recent words.

"I fucking love you, you stupid _fucking _idiot Gryffindor. For fucking fucks sake just live. Don't make me hate life without you."

Wild desperation and Bellatrix clung to her lover. She hung on the gallows of Hermione's lips, fearing their reality would explode at such things. She needed that perfect hand inside, the one that curled suddenly. Bella gasped aloud. A quiet moan. Throaty like cello on snow.

And with that single sound, then they were each other's. Almost.

Internally, the Gryffindor felt the core of the curse stumble, as the precious gift thumped her heart and a small release washed them. A warmth, this one. Her soul laughed butterflies like summer. They flapped another rising cycle down. And final light bulbs clicked to understanding. Inside, Hermione felt the trembling hand matching strokes; Bella's other now wrapped about her, shivering and holding onto life. That mess of curls ducked. That brilliant soul exposed and peaking. And she felt their slickness press together. Her whisper was wonder filled.

"Then love me."

But agreement of their feelings wasn't something Bellatrix understood. Self-deprecation. Hate. Cruelty. Spite. Those she understood. She went with the understood.

"Are you fucking insane?! I just accidentally raped you." Her head nodded incredulously to bodies. "Or can't you see your cunt swallowing my hand?" It was utterly crass, the bluntness of Bella's voice. "And now what?" She licked the girl's face, obscenely. "Awww, does the itty-bitty Mudfuck want me to _love_ her?" The woman wasn't one for political correctness or pussy-footing…so to speak.

But the better half of Bella's words, were only arousing. And body wanting what body wants, Hermione rocked onto them once again, carefully monitoring her wife's face. Finding actual truth in the reverted speech. She nipped at that proud jaw. Bellatrix wasn't quite ready to handle her own revelations, let alone Hermione' simple statement of reciprocity (_Then love me_). But the Gryffindor suspected in the course of physicality, the lieutenant would slip into action, turning fuck into love. It would erase this push-pull, their hurt-then-comfort tango. So Hermione baited hook, praying the curse would remain dormant for a while longer. As she now easily suspected that her cure revolved around Bellatrix. She might have laughed at her lover's freakish obstinacy, had it not been encouraging such magical malady.

She gasped as Bella's hands twitched, finally meeting her tempo. Even if they were slow. Uncertain. Bella's breath didn't sound again; that apparently was phenomenon in this world. But its rhythm changed. Hermione pushed further, loving the feeling of Bella's cunt. They needed this. Bellatrix needed it. The younger witch could all but hear the desire soaking the air. Her words were gentle, as hips took up steady roll. Or rather her tone was.

"We curse-fuck, you profess requited love, and you don't think it _normal _to fuck my brains out?" Hermione couldn't help but be amused, despite the emotional upheaval they conducted. The wanton press of her body into Bellatrix. She felt Bella's fingers jerk in surprise, and moaned.

"I…" Bellatrix was at a loss, her lips parted with need. Silently shivering at the digits stoking inside her, feeling rising again.

"He's not you. And it was years ago." Hermione's voice was small. Tiny. She repeated stronger and rode that hand. "He's not you, Bellatrix." Hips rolled. Hands thrust. "…He's not you." The words grounded her to the beauty underneath, writhing. Everything that was Bellatrix Black. "Touch me." The command was for love. Hermione whimpered, letting her head fall onto Bella's shoulder. And trembling.

And of course to be expected, Bellatrix was denial. Hermione didn't think the woman knew her fingers spoke otherwise (stroking fire), her thumb grazing clit. Slipping over it, soft like love. But Bellatrix went off on a tangent of orders.

"NO! I will not, Filth. You need rest, you need another round of diagnostics, you need…"

"You. And you already are."

And so it was, the touches had changed. Bella's free hand splayed on the small of the woman's back, pulling her closer. Rocking that beautiful girl against her hand. Hermione tuned out the restless words (which still continued), and instead watched the woman's face, finding what she needed underneath Bella's odd expression of dissonance. The need, for things she didn't understand. The younger witch pulled out, moaning as her wife's cunt cried slick tears at the loss. Instead, Hermione explored, fingertips savoring her Bella's pussy. Teasing flushed crevices and folds, hard desire. Finding that sweet bud and sliding over its swollen need. Their knuckles were solid against each other…hands kissing between heat. Finding the words needed.

"Bellatrix. _You _are not _him_."

Hermione's lips hovered at her wife's ear, suddenly understanding new demons. She moaned as luxurious hips met her touch, silent and shaking; the hand inside Hermione thrust in accidental response. Bella's nails were at her back, gripping. Pleading. She voiced what the dark one wouldn't.

"Make me yours, Bella. And Jesus-fucking-Christ, let yourself be mine. The curse apparently requires it. But you already knew that…didn't you." Bella's reluctance to share such fact produced little anger on Hermione's part. She understood the dark witch's intricacy of soul far too much for that. Bella pressed lips to the girl's sternum, growling apology and glee. Her fingers already digging in ownership, but waiting for actual cue. Hermione gave it to her.

"I require it." Ah. That was the ticket. "For once take what you actually want." Hermione circled that clit, loving that this was Bella's weakness. Loving as it distended and welcomed her touch. Starting to ride that hand.

And then no holds barred.

* * *

**Author's Note:** R & R, dearies. Apologies for the delay: this was a particularly difficult chapter to write and edit (I apologize in advance for any mistakes). We are now in the home stretch - one more chapter, and then a short epilogue.

**Review Responses:  
**_- Mochi reviews for Chpts. 5 & 6:  
_Bubbles, Primples, water guns…oh my! I do like to amuse. (That _would_ be an amusing AU: the shenanigans of understanding muggle culture. I'd pay good money to see Arthur Weasley compete against Xenophilius Lovegood in that.) You are certainly right; Cissy's tub is one of those large luxurious things. Mudspell; I wanted to create a piece of magic that damaged its victim, but not through brute force. This seemed a plausible dark arts spell to have existed in the HP-realm. Yeahhh. And you know me; the smut was always going to happen. I often think that the definition of chemistry is just as you put it: issues that need to be worked out. Heh. "…a packaged mud-fucking set." I was quite pleased with that line as well. Thank you for the kind words!

_- Guest review for Chpt 6:  
_I'll take "shocking" you with my style and story-line to be a good thing!

(Credits for entire story: _Counting Crows_ – A Long December; _Edwin McCain_ – I'll Be; _Damien Rice _– 9 Crimes; _Don McLean_ – American Pie; _Florence + the Machine_ – Howl, No Light, No Light; _Green Day_ – Longview; _Gregory Maguire_ – Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West; The_ Harry Potter _movies; _Idina Menzel_ (Frozen) – Let it Go; _J.K. Rowling_ – the Harry Potter series, _Once Upon a Time_, the TV show; _Sholom Secunda_ – Dona Dona; _Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs_,the Disney movie; _Sweeney _Todd, the movie; _Third Eye Blind_ – Semi-Charmed Life; _Walt Whitman_ – I Sing the Body Electric; _The Wizard of Oz_, the movie)


	8. Dispelling

And then no holds barred.

Bellatrix growled primal threat, thrusting pent-up everything into the witch. Three fingers spelled ownership and red fucking need. Kisses were languid, passion falling off lips. They moved; grinding down the lingering kinks with each beat, until all mismatched movement died. They were a well-oiled machine, felling a forest of trees, and snapping the necks of songbirds. The water sang lust for them, waves created. It was now Hermione who writhed, tight whimpering walls cinched around Bella's hand, clit throbbing and brushed with blushing skin. But it was Bellatrix painted in vulnerability, body trembling in new ways. Their hands pushed against her core, and she wanted to die. Sweetness was not thing meant in her life. But here she had it. Coal lashes must have flickered strange ash, as hazels burnt green in the orange and rising sun. Bella felt their stare. The water brought them a quality, less like reflection and more like admiration and promise.

"I'll stay. Even when you're scared." The whisper was, gasped between Hermione's moans.

"I'll stay. Even when you're not." Bellatrix was breathy, knowing what the words would do.

And they did.

Hermione's face changed: broken, healed simultaneously. She arched frenetically, matching the woman stroke for stroke. Eyes shimmered and breathy notes rose to peak, clattering into trembling crescendo. Bellatrix cradled the witch, tawny curls all around (a Byzantine halo). She reveled in the absentminded cries that whispered freedom to the outskirts of ear.

"Coming Bella…please. Fuck. Bella. Bellllla. B-bellatrix."

And Hermione came and came, trembling in Bella's arms, pulsing and coating hand with release. Four hands. Two sought purchase everywhere. One filled sweltering cave. One glossy with russet arousal. Love bathed them. Lips took Bella's mouth, releasing desperate cries. And the dark witch ate them, her heart aching. It was best, her own word-staunch. The warrior didn't trust herself, or words. But she trusted fucking, even this softer variety. So as orgasm still shuddered, she filled Hermione further, slipping in a third finger. Nibbles on Hermione's bottom lip. And Bellatrix swallowed those beautiful come-ridden moans gasped against her teeth. She chuckled as the witchling welcomed further invasion, desperately stretched and slick. Orgasm extended, hot around her fingers. Bellatrix bit their kiss, growling approval at the brave mouth that dared to love her. Dared to keep coming, squeezing her fingers in bucking frenzy. They consumed each other; Hermione's moans spilling sex over their lips and nips.

Answered with pulsing clits.

And with Bella inside, the Gryffindor rode out bliss, rocking on the tops of Bella's thighs. Against her core. They ended up entwined, collapsed on the perimeter ledge. The girl sprawled on her chest; only their heads and shoulder tips above water. (Bella preened her brilliance, for casting a cushioning charm on the ledge.) Limbs were unclear as to which body they belonged. Breath danced with tongues; aftershock whimpers from the younger witch as Bella gently slid out from her lover. Bella's glistening hands found their mouths. Hermione's were frantic for pale skin. And the darker witch purred at the erotic sight: Hermione Black née Granger, delirious and sucking come off her fingers.

They lay in the tub, trembling cub in snake coils. Bellatrix held her close; arms wrapped better than any present. Smirking lips placed affectionate on lion crown. Hermione snuggled in breasts, lips grazing nipple. Lazy moans protested; verbal nonsense that Bella took for concerned desire. Desire to please Bellatrix. And Hermione grew eager, teeth scraping pebbled flesh. Lips sucking, moaning. Bellatrix shivered, and slid the girl upward to her mouth.

A salacious kiss followed, delicious and raw. Blissful, but Hermione felt empty now, missing those wicked fingers. She had a clawing need to reconnect. She felt her mind trip, feeling the curse's bile surge. That is what was left of it. Still elated with sensation, she foggily noted that the curse was at half strength — half-defeated. Still. It was a heavy load gone from her head. She felt lighter, like neurons were able to fire their normal patterns once again. Her hands replaced mouth on Bella's chest. And she whimpered at soft and hard flesh, needy against her palms. But the pit in her stomach remained magical rocks, weighing her down. Hermione did not fancy letting it fester. Did not fancy a return to mad realm.

No.

Bellatrix. The curse required Bellatrix submit fully, and not just in word. This would have to be done delicately…to hurt the spell. To allow Bella the autonomy of choice. But it had to happen. Her thoughts disrupted as sex chuckled, vibrating in Hermione's ear, dark and perfect. They had always been good in bed, even in the beginning when true affection had lacked. And this…well. This was something else entirely. Her hope soared, eager to think that Bellatrix found their…new state-of-being fully stocked with benefits (_I'll stay_). Better sex would certainly please the woman. Their kissing turned lazy, tinged with salt and unspoken love. They pulled apart, noses nuzzling.

The dark witch cracked her neck, exhaling satisfaction…and settling back into this world as Hermione's blessed demon once again. Their eyes met. Bella shifted them back up in the tub, making the girl straddle her leg. Their thighs scissored together in delicious ways, allowing for free range movement. It was erotic, the sight of her young lover poised to ride. An innocent intoxication above her. They both felt Hermione's clit harden against Bella's thigh, and pussy lips grow slicker with the position. The older witch hissed pleasantly, as the girl pressed into her cunt; she smeared skin wet.

The warrior cupped the girl's face affectionately, cherishing the rising blush on cheeks. Bellatrix was only slightly unsettled, as she permitted fondness to spread across her face. This position was an intimacy they had yet to explore with each other. And she highly doubted that the golden girl had _ever_ done so. She felt oddly charmed at that. She certainly felt haughty. Hands tangled in the little lion's mane…considering. Bella sighed and was deliberate; she bowed her head. She laid strange surrender and protection at Hermione's heart, swearing fealty. It was a regal concession that came to rest on the girl's chest, the valley of breasts grazing Bella's lips. The Gryffindor confused. But then Bella's hands on her ass moved them against each other, hips sliding heat trails. And then she understood. It was…frightening intimate. And mutually so.

"B-bella…" she gasped, clit rigid on that perfect thigh. Her lover so fucking wet against her own.

The witch let the girl acclimate, keeping rhythm slow. She took advantage of the adjustment period, looked up and considered the flummoxed girl. Bella's face was a mix. But it settled on a smirk that licked battle sentiment up cleavage, stopping to suckle at pulse point.

"Ride, me." Bellatrix bit ear, commanding her favorite troop. This whispered command prompting a whimper.

The dirty, and Hermione bucked, instinct obeying lieutenant order. Bellatrix dug fingers into the girl's backside, sliding her up and down. Chuckling, as she felt Hermione's clit harden with every rasp over skin. Bella purred deep in chest; their motion pushed the girl into her cunt with each hip stroke (she enjoyed their paint medium and brushes). Hermione trembled, wrapping arms around Bella, hugging the dark head to heart. Keening, she began to move with Bella's guidance. Coating them both with arousal. Their pressed curves were as graceful and choppy as the ocean; the lion's whimpers roaring like sea.

Bella's fingers built heat, caressing smooth skin. Touching everywhere but where Hermione wanted most. Teasing circles around breasts. Areolas. Until finally, Bella licked nipples, sucking languidly, enjoying the witchling's breathy sounds. Salt was on the air and between their thighs. Bella kissed up collarbones, tonguing their delicate structure and biting the shadows housed. Breasts pressed together, arousal hardening between. Hermione sighed at the softness of Bella's lips, making their way to her neck. She felt a strong hand tangle tenderly in her mewing mane, before trailing down to racing heart. It thumped for them: uneven, storming gates, and strong. Bella's hips matched their thrusts to its ragged beat. And Hermione could only match Bella. It was molten inside of her. Lips building and building castles, and emotion spreading like pearl devotion. And Hermione was a desert, dying to break clam dams and flood the ocean floor.

Close.

"Please…"

So close.

Lips sultry and teeth bawdy, the dark witch coaxed and moved them faster. Steady. It was tantric. A rare tender, and she craved Hermione's soft moans; the ones that were desperate artistry. She wanted that gush to spill against her. On her. They writhed against each other, waves dominating in the tub. Water spilled over the ledge, splashing with their tide. Bellatrix managed to loosen her lover's fierce (and slightly scared) embrace. The witch gifted solidity to her young paramour, dancing hands to that pretty face as she rode them home. A mess of emotion and sensation, Hermione gripped her Bella's wrist, needing anchor.

Bellatrix felt telling thighs tremble. She rasped her own pleasure, controlled as it was.

"Together, Muddy."

She nipped this into jugular, breathily. Such wanton beauty above her…grinding into her cunt. And her clit swelled at the vision, at the firm and frantic leg working her. And the girl was close; it wouldn't take more than…

…a thrust.

And there they were.

Hermione's eyes fluttered, crying out, and crashing onto silky shore. Vehemently, she came all over Bella, hot and slick and puddled. Only to come again, when Bella gasped her own climax aloud, clear moan spilling out full lips and into Hermione's. They rode it out fervently, lips sustaining the high. She fell into Bellatrix, shaking, burying her face in the woman's curls. Hermione felt open, utterly awed that Bella allowed sound for her. Soaring still, she pressed fervid lips to the witch's jaw. Adoration in her being as Bella's hands soothed, running over her back better than water. It had been…everything.

But it hadn't been enough.

Tears flooded Hermione's eyes. Knowing that despite the intimacy, Bellatrix still held back. Not a lot. But enough. The curse held. Weak. But it held. They didn't speak to paramount need. One look to Hermione's flooded eyes and Bella knew. The warrior tried not to think, as she did what had to be done. She took advantage of the girl's noodly body, and flipped them. Bellatrix had never been a good bottom. And for…this, she'd have to be on top. She'd have better chance of beating herself. But Bella wondered if the new serenity of the girl's expression was acceptance: assumption that this was as far as the dark witch could go. Still. She slightly amused as Hermione's face relaxed, only too happy to let Bellatrix take reigns (despite her fears of what was to come). Hermione sighed happily, snuggled between her lover and the magical cushion. Her eyes watered…too many factors and vibrations in head. But she pouted slightly, after realizing how comfortable this position was. Sneaky Bella. Heavily lidded, her eyes fluttered…feeling cocooned.

"If you fall asleep, Muddy, I will not hesitate to hex you." Snark fell to odd. "If you _love_ me, you will endure the world of waking." Bellatrix would try again. For her she would try.

That new word hung between them. Hermione's eyes snapped open, finding Bellatrix in her glory, wrapped around her waist. Cunt splayed and poised on Hermione's stomach.

Oh.

The woman was almost harsh in manhandle, shoving the girl's hand between them, to her apex. At the mercy of her own personal goddess, the curse left Hermione's mind easily (but not Bella's). Pointedly, Bellatrix's hips surged intent; cunt painting Hermione's hand and dripping arousal onto the girl's torso. Hazels rolled out a tear. Bella's hand brushed it away with her thumb, before kissing eyelids. Apologies. Cheeks. Mouth. Sucking a luscious bottom lip.

"If you want my sounds. You'll have to take them, Mudface." She funneled challenge into the girl's mouth. Slur. A touch of juvenileness. The lion responded well to that.

Hermione's eyes flashed vigor. And then they danced.

Breath mingled, and the witchling groaned at the flood meeting her hand. Bellatrix demanded. The swollen bud demanded gratification in its coarse strides. It was always an odd experience, pleasuring Bella. Even in the throes, the woman never submitted; she conducted. Hermione's most desperate sounds favored these moments in Bella's favorite position: commanding Hermione's hand, rocking them to some personal drumline. The Gryffindor had learned long ago, that penetration was but foreplay for her dark one. But work the woman's clit expertly, and the warrior would sing for you. Not sounds, but the body electric. And this time was no different, as they undulated into the willing and yielding day.

"Move." Growl was pithy, but clear.

And Hermione opened the invitation, licking her lips; an envelope dying for wet missive. Her hand ceased passivity, action pushing back against polished clit and pussy lips. Bella's breath hitched ever so slightly, as palm rocked her clit, slow and sweet as molasses.

"Bella…" She was overwhelmed murmur.

Hermione knew that hitch. It screamed her wife's pleasure clearly, if quietly. And the Gryffindor grew wetter at the notion. Bellatrix felt it. They held a flood between them by now; even in the water, it pooled steaming lava…a fire liquid. Bella's fervent lover never failed to flood for her. It prompted another breath from the woman. And such return exchanged between them for long moments. Small breaths. Hermione met her there, in this feedback system gunning for ecstasy. Pattern set, Hermione set about making the woman explode. Bellatrix couldn't look at her. Instead she bit the girl's shoulder, clawed at the girl's back…finding traction in search of any power.

Control.

It wobbled in her hands. Bellatrix couldn't grasp it. Not when her wife was so achingly good. Warmth spread within, hot like ovens and the pleasantries of tea. It was searing and she needed something, anything to let pressure out. The feeling climbed towers, spun outward. And dark witch was frantic in failed attempts to quash it. It ought not have been surprising then as Bellatrix gushed. But then again, she was oh so wet, and Hermione was gasps and strangled desire. And for the first time in years, Bellatrix blushed. The warrior let her body fall into the witch's chest. Lips parted in intense pleasure, in a hush she still couldn't break. But Hermione understood their tremble, as Bella's slickness bucked uncontrollably against her hand. Silently.

Hermione didn't judge.

There would be other orgasms. Other sounds. But only if Hermione lived. The curse required _full _acceptance of the afflicted. By a pureblood. (In awful ways, it was a brilliantly constructed curse, as reversal required the one thing a "true" pureblood would never do — love a mudblood. And more than that, an exchange of honest soul.) Without effective reversal, the curse would regenerate. And they'd be back where they started. So in awful catch-22, sound was their last hurdle.

Hermione didn't judge.

Hermione let Bella hear her instead, let her free hand treasure the witch's angles, curves, mouth. And she raked across that beautiful clit with urgent speed. Fingers fast and hard. Mouth gentle, promising lips. Ashamed, Bellatrix refused the tenderness, clamping teeth down on Hermione's shoulder as her shivers increased. She ravaged nipples, fingers wantonly unkind. The harpy scratched collarbones, nailed welts on their hills. But the warrior faltered, as Hermione never matched the ferocity. The girl chose tenderness in the bray of storm, knowing that despite Bella's response, the dark witch needed it all the same. The Gryffindor fisted dark curls. Hermione held Bella there, stroking hair; the calming lighthouse between thunderstruck thighs. Wavering, Bellatrix let their mouths occupy her mind, as her hands turn loving. Fingers caressed, pulling erect nipples into the tenderness of light. Bellatrix feasted on the girl's lips. Jaw. She slipped down to her lover's painfully erect clit. Loved how now they rocked against each other. Obscenely wet and needy under hands.

Bella tried. She tried so hard. To dam it. To let it out. So hard against that perfect hand. But there wasn't any escape to be found, not as the girl (no woman) brought awe to the room, riding her hand. Bellatrix had to watch, craved it; she pulled back slightly, shifting. Hermione full of whimpers, as it allowed both of them better access. Better speed. And the dark witch found new meal for eyes, ears. The way Hermione gasped from the soft thumbs slipping over and over heat. Hers. Bella's. How Bellatrix's thighs shook, uncontrollably. Open. Wet. Wanting. Close to breaking.

"Let it go." The Gryffindor found the whisper of bravery.

Bella shook her head. She wouldn't. She couldn't. She tried. She hung her head. Found silver lining in watching hands erotically crossed — rubbing two heats. Hermione's head tilted upward; those green eyes Bella loved so. Pleading. And Bellatrix was close to shame, as her own body arched for this perfect creature in her arms. Orgasm building again. Fucking was one thing. This…this felt like another.

"Come. Come for me." Hermione's face trembled. "Please…let me hear you."

And Bella wanted to run. Away. To. She hated the knowing tilt of Muddy's chin. Hated that the girl allowed such touch. Because she loved her. Hermione Gr—Black loved her. Loved her. And simply, this broke Bellatrix completely.

Into sound.

Soft things they started, her moans. So stark a difference from the brash personality. But perhaps then it was fitting. Barrier broken, they eagerly pressed together on the tub ledge. And slick with water and juice, they tangoed to heart-jumps and unspoken words. Hermione bucked, eyes wonder-filled and new.

The eyes did it.

And then Bellatrix was yelling wildly, arched and glorious — hoarse orgasm bouncing off walls around them. She squirted guttural deluge onto Hermione's waiting hand. And heart. The girl followed quickly, keening, with reverent sounds that attempted at words. Bellatrix laughed blithely, as she came, and they came and came again. They were rocking horse of liquid. Sound. Waves flooding the bathroom. Life.

And love.

After a forever, the surges finally dissipated. And they came down, sunrise tingles lingering and warming. Something close to awe sat between them, and Bella's hand shook something wonderful as it caressed her beloved's face. Still gasping, Hermione's lips placed love in her hand, simple with a kiss. Bellatrix clung, legs wrapped around the girl and shaking a new openness…hugging their pounding hearts together. Hermione was unable to stop her leaking face, tears lighting their still-life to come. Lips met, over and again, frenzied kisses trying to convey field sentiments and this sense of…wholeness and running in the sun.

They didn't notice as black smog seeped, sneaking out of Hermione's body, mist sailing out her pores and passing angrily through daybreak windows.

Only to die in the direct sun.

* * *

**Author's Note:** R & R, dearies. Props to AGG for the altered _Coheed & Cambria_ quote (from a long ago prompt that never happened). Epilogue to follow soon.

**Review Responses:  
**_- Artemis Noir review for Chpt. 1:  
_I'm not sure why you have no idea what's happening, I was pretty explicit.

(Credits for entire story: _Counting Crows_ – A Long December; _Edwin McCain_ – I'll Be; _Damien Rice _– 9 Crimes; _Don McLean_ – American Pie; _Florence + the Machine_ – Howl, No Light, No Light; _Green Day_ – Longview; _Gregory Maguire_ – Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West; The_ Harry Potter _movies; _Idina Menzel_ (Frozen) – Let it Go; _J.K. Rowling_ – the Harry Potter series, _Once Upon a Time_, the TV show; _Sholom Secunda_ – Dona Dona; _Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs_,the Disney movie; _Sweeney _Todd, the movie; _Third Eye Blind_ – Semi-Charmed Life; _Walt Whitman_ – I Sing the Body Electric; _The Wizard of Oz_, the movie.

Additional credits for this chapter: _Coheed & Cambria_ – Welcome Home; _Fun._ – Some Nights; _Savage Garden_ – Tears of Pearls)


	9. Epilogue

**Author's Note I: **I'd like to thank the exquisite _beforeyouspeak_ for her unwavering friendship, the lovely _undomybackzip_ for her staunch support, and the wonderful _imperfectionisunderrated_ / _bellatrixshorcrux _for prompting this story in the first place. Please note that while this is an epilogue of sorts, I consider this chapter to present only one possible extrapolation. My headcannon diverged on two paths: ending with either Chapter 8 or this. And since I'm a fan of cake and eating it too...this resulted.

* * *

A healthy candlemark later, as lips wrapped clit, they certainly didn't notice Cissy's knock. (Seeking lip-height perfection, Bella had hauled Hermione out of the sunken bubble tub and perched her on pool edge.) Lost in their world of silk, blonde diatribe forced through the door; the annoyed sass banged to their ears. One set flushed. The other amused. Both stilled momentarily. Realizing Cissa thought they were…done.

"For fuck's sake, Bella. If infomercials serve well, then I think the muggles would call you _Hoover_. You couldn't have soundproofed the bloody room? I literally had to knock out your nephew. He freaked out and fucking _broke _my favorite _breakfront_. I swear to all that is holy you will fix it or I'll bugger your familiar with a broom. Now do come out. You two have been bubble-huddled for long enough."

Well. Black sibling threats were always a fun mix and variety show.

Bellatrix couldn't help but be heartwarmed at the underlying connotation. Cissa's open candor meant the blonde had fully accepted Hermione as a sister (no longer caring if the girl saw or heard her…personality). It was Narcissa's way, akin to batting someone out the kitchen with a wooden spoon. Hermione would come to this revelation later, but at the moment, mortification coated her face. Terrified the woman would catch them in the act. But Bellatrix chortled, deciding her mouthy sister deserved her own brand of propriety-death. Between Hermione's thighs, the wicked witch brought a shushing finger to lips, sparkles skating in clever eyes: Hermione's own widened, filled with _the-fuck-you-can't-be-serious_ mantras. Her throat failed miserably as Bella's tongue was an expert. (Hermione let out an appalled squeak, a snort, and then a stifled moan.) The witchling quite thought this situation made up for the teenage years she missed, chasing after a madman.

And then a madwoman.

"Amongst her hot air, there's pun in there somewhere…isn't there Muddy?" Bella licked whispered amusement around the swollen clit, ignoring her ill-timed sister. She traced labia in feral and domestic ways. Nipping, teasing. Hermione yelped louder, breath quaking and making it through the door.

"BELLATRIX YOU'RE A FUCKING ANIMAL. I heard that! Have you no propriety? For heaven's sake, you've been at this for hours. Let the girl rest." She huffed. "I made pancakes."

"Animal?" Bellatrix about died laughing into her wife's pretty cunt. "You're the one _standing_ there while I frig my wife off, idly threatening to fuck my cat, and demanding we eat your failed confections."

"You're wanker."

"Quite literally at the moment, Cissa-dear."

"Bella…" Hermione's admonishment whispered, eyes rolling at the disturbing and idiotic banter. Her breath hitched at the proximity of air between two sets of lips.

Warrior took this as invitation to slip in fingers. Hermione's hands tangled in her hair, incensed and gasping. Pleading for ambiguous things. Bellatrix smirked.

"And Cissy, if I'm such an animal, then do take your bestiality bugger threats elsewhere. I'm busy at the moment." Lick. "And well." Lick. Quim quivered under her tongue. "If anyone is to take anyone like that at all…it'll be this one, taking me."

Eyes locked with her scandalized and aroused wife, on the precipice of apex. Just how Bella liked her. A deliberate rasp of teeth and she sucked Hermione to wailing come. Again. Hermione fell apart, laughter bubbling out her chest, followed by Bella's lighthearted cackle. And Narcissa's drawn-out ewwwww.

She had family. She had love.

Life lived. With levity.

* * *

_One year later. _

Narcissa had given up on regular pancakes. But today she attempted potato pancakes, deeming them an acceptable substitute. The oil sizzled something lovely, and the lingering smell of onion processed the room. Faintly, she pitied the muggles, who couldn't magic such potency away. Though, in all honesty, she found the plebeian smell…comforting. As did she the muffled screaming from below her marble floors.

It lent nice harmony to the oil boil.

On the wind, traveling giggles sprung into her griddle, wafting from outside. Fondly, blonde turned to the window. It was uncracked and unblemished; a shining artwork in sunlight. Yellow patches refracted, waltzing patterns onto her wall. Her cheekbones. And from Cissa's vantage, vista met her. Just there. Before the far off crest of hill. Two ridiculous curly forms could be made out with (she squinted) flailing limbs sprawled on the iced-over lake.

A pile of awkward love and ice skates.

She tsked, amused at Bella's determination to master another blade sport. Had the wind carried more, and had the lake been closer, the blonde would have heard…seen raunchier things.

* * *

"Fuck Bella, that's cold!" Whimpers. Greedy mouths and hot flesh. Skirts tangled and soaked on the ice.

Icicles.

"I _told _you ice would be interesting," Bella rasped, her lips cold and tongue hot. She cackled like murder, having found new addiction.

The Gryffindor lodged no complaint as firm hands molded to her hips, and giddy mouth snaked up her thigh, devouring its queendom come. Hermione trembled, wild hair, clever eyes eating at her.

Their own brand of love.

"Be a good Mudslut for Mistress. I promised you I teach you to _blade_. And I think it's high time my mouth and I fucked you back into madness." This hummed against Hermione's cunt; a fitting metaphor for their lives.

A knife distinctly unsheathed and flipped around in Bella's hand…brandishing its hilt.

* * *

The wind wasn't needed to carry the scream of completion. Startled mid turnover, Cissa accidentally flung the potato cake ceiling bound. And then swore something awful. She glanced around furtively, praying Draco hadn't returned home yet. She had no plan to let him see her concession: Bella was indeed inclined like her pancakes. Utterly untimely and wayward. She sighed.

Still.

She was rather amused at the sizzles in her pan and on the ice lam. And as her sister-in-law crested none too softly (again), a distinct scream pierced from the dungeons below. Crassly, Cissa decided she could grow to love cooking to the soundtrack of retribution. And orgasm.

All was well.

* * *

**Author's Note II:** R & R, dearies. Alas, this is the end of our story. But I'm not knocking out the possibility of a sequel. However, there are several other projects I'd like to work on first. Thank you all, lovelies, for coming along for the ride. Until next time. *tip of the hat*.

(Credits for entire story: _Coheed & Cambria_ – Welcome Home; _Counting Crows_ – A Long December; _Edwin McCain_ – I'll Be; _Damien Rice _– 9 Crimes; _Don McLean_ – American Pie; _Florence + the Machine_ – Howl, No Light, No Light; _Fun._ – Some Nights; _Green Day_ – Longview; _Gregory Maguire_ – Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West; The_ Harry Potter _movies; _Idina Menzel_ (Frozen) – Let it Go; _J.K. Rowling_ – the Harry Potter series, _Once Upon a Time_, the TV show; _Savage Garden_ – Tears of Pearls; _Sholom Secunda_ – Dona Dona; _Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs_,the Disney movie; _Sweeney _Todd, the movie; _Third Eye Blind_ – Semi-Charmed Life; _Walt Whitman_ – I Sing the Body Electric; _The Wizard of Oz_, the movie)


End file.
